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SLINGS AND ARROWS. 


CHAPTER I. 

A CYNIC. 

As the tale which I am about to tell is my own ; as I 
myself am the hero — a pitiful enough hero — of these 
pages I shall by and by be forced to say so much about 
my own affairs that I may well begin by sparing a few 
lines to those of another man, a man on whose grave the 
grass has been growing for many a long year. 

His name was Julian Loraine. His home, from the day 
W’hen first I knew him to the day of his death was Herstal 
Abbey, a fine old house in that part of wooded Somerset- 
shire where railways have not yet come. 

Although Mr. Loraine ivas a man of wealth, and more- 
over by education, and I believe family, fully entitled to 
take a high social position, Herstal Abbey was not his an- 
cestral home. He had acquired it by simple right of pur- 
chase, having bought out an old, improvident, but popu- 
lar county family — bought it out so completely, that if he 
did not literally step into its shoes, he sat in its very chairs 
and used its very tables. 

Such a wholesale buying up of one of their own class 
by an unknown man always annoys, perhaps frightens 
county people, and Julian Loraine’s neighbors for some 
time looked at him askance. He took none of those steps 
by which a new-comer may occasionally gain access to the 
magic county circle. He brought no introductions. He 
gave no large subscriptions to the hunt — indeed, there was 
not much hunting in that part. He did not, in a covert way, 
let his willingness to give grand entertainment be known. 
He simply completed the purchase of Herstal Abbey and its 
contents, took up his abode in the old house, and troubled 


SL/A'GS AN-D ARROWS. 


% 

nothing about his neighbors, which no doubt annoyed 
them all the more. 

Little Julian Loraine cared for this. The truth is he 
was one of the most unsociable men alive, and his cyni- 
cism if distributed through the county would have made 
Somersetshire a region in which life would have been un- 
bearable. He was — I pen the words reluctantly — an utter 
disbeliever in humanity. Perhaps the life which he had 
hitherto led brought him to this state of mind. 

For in a very short time his neighbors found out that 
he was by no means the unknown man they thought him. 
People who knew London life had much to say about this 
Julian Loraine. It was soon made clear to the country- 
side that the new man’s social claims to the right hand of 
fellowship were indisputable ; but other things were also 
made clear. 

Loraine had led a terrible life — the very fastest of the 
fast. The wonder was that he had survived — even greater 
wonder that he was still wealthy. At one time it was 
thought he had run through everything, for he had dis- 
appeared, and no one saw anything of him for years. But 
it turned out he had only been leading a roving life in far 
countries. Repenting, let us hope. No, Julian Loraine 
was not a nice man. 

But nice or not no one had any longer the wish to keep 
Mr. Loraine at arm’s length. Had he cared for it, he 
might have enjoyed mixing with the pick of county society. 
But he treated civility almost as he treated coldness, with 
complete indifference ; and it soon became understood that 
the owner of Herstal Abbey was a man who no longer 
cared to mix with his kind. 

It was of course incomprehensible that any one should buy 
a fine property and settle down to tlie life of a recluse ; the 
more so as the man was still in the prime of life, handsome 
and wealthy. But Julian Loraine was an incomprehensi- 
ble man. I, for one, have never been able to determine 
his true character. Perhaps I have shunned investigating 
it. Perhaps, had I tried, I should have been unable to 
gather trustworthy information as to his true nature, from 
the fact that tales afloat concerning his early life would 
reach me last of all. 

When he bought Herstal Abbey he was a widower with 
one son, a boy of seven. This boy he petted and neglected 
alternately. There were days when the child was with 
him from morn to eve ; there were weeks in which he 


SL/.VGS AND ARROWS. 


^5 

never saw him from Sunday morning to Saturday night ; 
there were months during which Mr. Loraine went wan- 
dering off, heaven knows where, leaving the child to the 
care of servants. 

Whether at home or abroad, he kept up his establish- 
ment in a lavish, wasteful manner. He threw his money 
about in a cynical way, as one who cared not how it went, 
lie expected Ins servants would rob him — no doubt they 
did. This he considered but human nature, and troubled 
nothing about it ; but woe to the man or woman who in 
the sliglitest degree neglected anything which his comfort 
or whim demanded ! His dependents soon understood 
their master’s peculiarities, and by the exercise of due care 
managed to keep their places for years and years, and no 
doubt grew rich upon the money he wasted. 

As will soon be seen, I have related all, or the greater 
part of the abov^e, from hearsay. The following incident 
in Mr. Loraine’s life I can vouch for, as I heard it from 
his own lips. 

In the year 1853 he was returning from Australia. He 
did not tell me what had taken him there, but I suspect he 
went in search of health. He was in a sailing vessel — the 
Black Swan was her name. Tliere were other passengers 
— men, women and children. One night there was a 
crash, a horrible grinding sound, a recoil, and the Black 
Swan quietly settled down to the bottom of the ocean. 
Whether the disaster was due to a collision or to a sunken 
rock was never known. All was over in five minutes, and 
Julian Loraine found himself swimming for life, yet with- 
out a hope of saving it. 

In swimming, as indeed in every manly exercise, Loraine 
was all but unrivalled ; but even his great strengtli was 
gone when he felt a hand on his collar and was pulled all 
but insensible into a small boat, which, it appeared, was 
the only one that had been lowered, or at any rate had 
succeeded in getting away from the wreck. 

The sea fortunately was comparatively smooth or the 
tiny boat could not have outlived the night. When the 
morning broke Julian LOraine saw all that survived of the 
ship and her freight. 

Himself, four sailors, three women and a baby in arms ! 

The sailors were pulling, not from the hope of reaching 
land, but to keep the boat’s head to the waves. The 
mother, with her child clasped to her breast, and the two 
other women were crouching in the stern sheets. 


5 


SL/XCS AND ADDOIVS. 


In the boat were a dozen biscuits and a small keg of 
water. 

With the light all turned to Loraine for advice and aid. 
He was a man of commanding presence, to whom people 
of a lower organization would naturally turn in difficulties. 
He assumed the responsibility. 

He told the men to step the mast and hoist what sail 
they thought safe, and then to steer as close to the wind as 
possible. He assured them that land was not far off. His 
only reason he informed me for taking this course was that 
he hated the labor of rowing. Any hope of their lives being 
saved he scouted. 

However before nightfall they did reach land — a bare 
rock, but land. 

By this time one of the women was lying in the bottom 
of the boat moaning like one in agony. Her companions 
of the same sex were exchanging frightened glances. The 
poor thing was carried ashore, and the true state of affairs 
communicated to the men. A tent or screen was by the 
aid of the sail and the oars hastily rigged up, and in an 
hour’s time there were ten human beings instead of nine 
on that barren rock. 

But not for long. Before the morning the number was 
the same as when they landed, only that the place of one 
of the women was taken by a crying, prematurely-born 
infant. 

The rough men and women did what they could for the 
poor little wretch. The woman with the nursing baby 
gave it a portion of what was rightfully her own child’s. 

This, in Julian Loraine’s opinion, was the most rash and 
misplaced expression of false sentiment he had ever met 
with. 

Toward the evening of that day they scraped a grave 
for the mother. They did not fill it up at once, thinking 
that by and by the child must be laid in her arms. 

At one time it seemed that it must be so. The sailors 
and the women, no doubt thinking that a gentleman is 
nearer heaven than themselves, brought the poor little 
wailing atom to Loraine, and asked him to christen it. 

With death so close at hand to all it was not worth while 
making any demur ; but 1 can fancy the man’s cynical 
smile as he sprinkled • water from a large shell on the 
child’s head. He, Julian Loraine, doing a priest’s duty, 
and doing it for the pleasure of other people ! 

However^ -SO far as he knew liow, he, baptized the child, 


SLINGS AND ARROIVS. 


r 

and thinking that a name was indispensable, with a kind 
of grim humor christened him, for it was a boy, Julian. 

After all no one else died, not even the strangely-born 
baby. The next day a sail hove in sight. Such signals as 
the ship wrecked party could make were seen, and men, 
women and babies were soon in safety on board a home- 
ward-bound ship. 

No one, not even her fellow-passengers, knew the name 
or anything about the woman who had died. Her clothes, 
such as she wore, bore no mark. Her husband, if on 
board, had gone down in the Black Swan. What was to 
become of the child ? 

Loraine settled this. Perhaps he thought the child had 
a certain ridiculous claim upon him. He was no niggard 
with his money. He told some one — he \vould not have 
taken the trouble to see about it himself — to find a com- 
fortable home for the child, and to apply to him when 
money was w’anted. Then he went his way, and lived for 
years as he chose. 

Every now and then when her paymaster was in town, 
the woman who had charge of the child ventured to bring 
him to see his benefactor. Sometimes the benefactor 
scowled, sometimes smiled his cynical smile and took 
notice of the little boy, who was called by his baptismal 
name. Master Julian. When the boy was seven years of 
age, Julian Loraine sent instructions that he w'as to be for- 
warded to Herstal Abbey, Somersetshire. Having been told 
by the good people about him that the grand gentleman 
he now and again saw was his father, he addressed him by 
that endearing term. Julian Loraine no doubt stared 
and laughed, but he said nothing forbidding the appella- 
tion being used. So to himself and the world the boy w^as 
Master Julian, only son of Julian Loraine, of Herstal 
Abbey. 

What strange freak induced the man to present a name- 
less child, of humble and unknown parents, to the w^orld 
as his son I shall never know^ 1 have tried to think it was 
from affection toward the child — from the need even his 
own nature felt of something he could love and call his 
own ; but I cannot think so. It may have been pure cyni- 
cism. He may some day have wanted to turn round and 
say, “ What is birth ? See, I take this low-born brat, 
bring him up as a gentleman, and every one thinks him 
born to the station !” It may have been a baser motive, 
that of revenge. I shall never know. 


s 


SLI^TGS AND ARROIVS, 


The boy grew up. He passed from the stage of Master 
Julian to that of Mr. Julian, or young Mr. Loraine ; yet 
his reputed father kept the secret — kept it until the boy 
was nineteen, and like many other boys of that age who 
are only sons of rich fathers, began to give himself airs. 
Then one summer’s evening, when the man and the boy 
were sitting over their claret, Julian Loraine thought fit 
to relate, even more fully than I have given it above, the 
story of the wreck and the history of the child born on 
that rock. 

And I — for I was the boy to whom he told it — turned 
deadly pale and gasped for breath. I believe I had never 
really loved the man whom I supposed to be my father ; 
his was not a lovable nature. Often and often I had re- 
proached myself for my lack of filial affection. But now, as 
I turned my dazed eyes to his face, and saw the satirical 
smile with which he regarded me, I ail but hated him. I 
rose unsteadily. 

“ I must go and think all this over,” I stammered out. 

“ Certainly, go and think it over.” 

He spoke carelessly and returned to his claret, while I 
rushed wildly from the room. 


CHAPTER 11. 

*‘de mortuis nil nisi bonum." 

It was not until late in the afternoon of the next day 
that I could bring myself to meet again the man whom I 
had always believed to be my father. During the time 
while I held myself aloof from him I passed through many 
stages of sorrow, but I believe my anger was even greater 
than my grief. I was but nineteen years of age, but I 
fancy that my thoughts and ideas were in advance of my 
years. The curious, almost solitary life, which I had led 
for many years at Herstal Abbey no doubt conduced to 
making me older than I really was. Till the time came 
for me to go to Oxford I saw little of any one save my 
supposed father, my tutor, and the servants of the house. 

But latterly all had changed for the better. I had been 
two terms at the University. I had made many friends. 
Life was just opening to me: a new, fresh life, full of 
pleasure and excitement. I found myself fairly popular 


SLINGS AND ARROIVS. 


9 


with my fellows. I was well supplied witli money. I was 
looked upon as an only son, and heir to a fine property. 
In short, my lot seemed to be one in ten thousand. 

And that moment Mr. Loraine had chosen to reveal to 
me the secret of my lowly birth. To dash me from the 
pedestal upon which he had placed me. To show me 
that I had no claim upon him — that instead of being 
young Mr. Loraine of Herstal Abbey, I was no one ! 

I remember how, shortly before he told me the tale of 
the shipwreck, I had been discoursing in a somewhat ar- 
rogant, self-satisfied, and glib manner as to the duties in- 
cumbent on old families and landed gentry ; asserting that 
the existence of the aristocracy was an unmitigated bless- 
ing to the land. In fact I was giving my supposed father 
a hash-up of a speech which I had heard at the Union. I 
thought my sentiments gave him satisfaction. He smiled 
and looked amused. No doubt he was amused, so amused 
that the demon of sarcasm rose within him, and hurried 
on the revelation which he may or may not have intended 
should be made. The temptation to prick the bladder in- 
flated by my youthful arrogance must have been irresistible 
to Mr. Loraine. From a c^ild I had noted this cruel trait 
in his character. I had noticed it with servants, such 
acquaintances as he had, and with myself. The way of 
listening, of even leading one on to talk, and then sud- 
denly, by a biting piece of sarcasm, crushing the unlucky 
speaker. It was from this and kindred actions that, even 
while I thought him my father, I did not love the man. 

Nor did he love me. Had he loved me ever so little he 
would have kept the secret, and spared me my present 
humiliation. So in spite of all he had done for me my 
anger rose and burned against Julian Loraine. 

I may have been wrong ; but as will be soon discovered, 
I was full of faults. Perhaps the very association, more or 
less, during twelve years with a man of Mr. Loraine’s 
stamp must develop faults 

There ! Let me write no more to his detriment. He 
W’orked me evil, and he worked me good. He is dead. As 
I raise my eyes from my paper and glance through my 
window, I can almost see his grave. 

In the afternoon I went in search of him. I found him 
reading in the library. He nodded as I entered, then re- 
turned to his book and finished the paragraph. 

“ Well, Julian ? " he said, as a signal that he was at my 
service. 


SL/ATGS A. YD ARROIVS. 


xo 


** I have been thinking over what you told me last night, 
Mr. Loraine.” 

He raised his dark eyebrows as he heard me address him 
in this wise. Till now I had generally used the old-fash- 
ioned “sir sometimes, not often, “father.” 

“ I hate changes, Julian,” he said. “As you know, the 
old landed gentry are rooted to old customs.” 

Even at that moment he could not forego his sarcasm. 
My cheek flushed. 

' “See how you have changed life for me ! ” I said hotly. 

“ Ah ! yes ; greatly, no doubt. I wonder what you would 
have been now ? ” 

“Tell me what I am now.” 

“ So far as I know, a young man of nineteen, thoroughly 
well-educated, good-looking, full of Church and State 
principles. Why, the rector stopped me yesterday, and as- 
sured me you were one of the finest young fellows he ever 
knew ; quite a credit to the county.” 

This banter seemed to stab me. “Tell me, sir,” I said, 
“ ought I to thank you for what you have done for me ?” 

“ Personally, I hate expressions of gratitude ; but if it 
gives you any satisfaction, thank me by all means.” 

“No I do not thank you. Had you placed me in some 
humble position suited to my birth, and let me make my 
way in the world, I could have thanked you. But for years 
to let me be called your son ; why did you do it sir ? ” 

“ I had some reason at the time, I almost forget it.” 

“Mr. Loraine, I have thought it all over ” 

“So you told me Julian. Go on.” 

“ You may laugh at me, but I consider that I have a 
great claim upon you.” 

He simply raised his eyebrows, but did not deny my as- 
sertion. 

“ You have kept me in ignorance for years,” I continued, 
speaking quickly. “You have brought me up, and let me 
go out in the world under false colors. Now just as I enter 
upon manhood you tell me who I am, or rather who I am 
not. Why you did this, you alone know. You had some 
reason for it. In return, I have a right to demand some- 
thing.” 

“ Demand ! A right ! Never mind. Go on.” 

I had expected an outburst of rage. His calm encour- 
aged me. 

“Yes, sir; T ask that I maybe allowed tf) finish my 
course at Oxford. Then, when I liave taken my degree, 1 


SZnVGS AND ARDOIVS, 


Tt 


will go and earn my own living as best I can. I shall of 
course now call myself by some other name. Can you 
suggest one ? ” 

Mr. Loraine laughed a curious laugh. “I like fellows 
who demand better than those who beg,” he said. “Go 
back to college by all means. As to a name, is not Julian 
Loraine good enough for you ? You are perfectl}’’ wel- 
come to use it.” 

“ But it is not mine.” 

“Never mind ; use it. I choose that you shall use it so 
long as you are dependent on me. I also choose you to 
be thought my son. No ” — he saw me about to speak — “ I 
will give no reasons ; perhaps I have none. You may be 
sure that it will be no hindrance to your future, being 
thought a rich man’s son. Beside, I hate changes. Now 
don’t talk any more. You have demanded ; 1 have acceded. 
Go away.” 

Puzzled and dissatisfied, I left him. I had fully per- 
suaded myself that I had a right to claim what I had 
claimed from him. It was also not hard for me to learn to 
think that if it was Mr. Loraine’s wish that I should still 
pass as his son and bear his name, it was my duty to do so. 
Besides — remember, I was but a boy, and so need not be 
ashamed of the truth — with all my assumed independence, 
the thought of proclaiming my humble and unknown 
parentage to my friends was gall and wormwood to me. 
To sink from the position which I held as Mr. Loraine’s 
son to that of no one at all was a cliange greater than I 
could picture to myself with equanimity. So I objected 
no more ; and as Mr. Loraine sternly forbade the subjects 
being reopened, my life, in spite of its clouded future, 
went on in its accustomed groove. 

Here, to avoid any misleading, I may say that all I ever 
learned about my true parentage was what Mr. Loraine 
told me. Who and what was my ill-fated mother, I know 
no more tiian I know for what reason my reputed father 
allowed me to be brought up as his son. 

The terms and the vacations went by. I did not during 
the latter see a great deal of Mr. Loraine ; nor did he 
press me to spend the time at Herstal Abbey. But a cer^ 
tain feeling, if not of gratitude, of what seemed right and 
proper, induced me to stay there on several occasions, 
There was really little apparent change in the relations be^ 
tween Mr. Loraine and myself. What change there might 
be was perhaps for the b^etter. I was accepting his benefits. 


12 


SLINGS AND A DR OF/S, 


but accepting them because I considered I had a right to 
them. Moreover I was determined that when the time 
came, I would be quite independent of his favor. I en- 
deavored now and again to show him my feelings on this 
point ; and in spite of the mocking smile with wdiich he 
received my hints, I do not think he liked me the less. I 
am not sure but in time a sincere friendship might have 
sprung up between us; for whatever ma} have been Julian 
Loraine’s inner nature, when he chose to meet any one on 
terms of equality and companionship, he could make him- 
self one of the most charming men in the w’orld. His talk, 
although dangerous and bitter, w’as wdtty and brilliant. 

But time would not allow this incipi*e-nt feeling to grow 
up. Just after my twenty-first birthday I was summoned 
in hot haste from Oxford. Mr. Loraine was dying. 

I reached Herstal Abbey just in time. My benefactor — 
yes, I must call him so — w^as just sensible, but speechless. 
I bent over him and took his hand. His fingers gave mine 
a faint pressure. Even at that solemn moment I wondered 
at this show of feeling. And I wondered at the strange 
look in his dark eyes. They met mine yearningly, and I 
knew that the dying man had much he wished to say to 
me ; yet somehow I knew it was not about myself he 
wished to speak. I stooped down close to him. His dry 
lips moved, but could not articulate. He gave a faint 
sigh ; his eyelids flickered, and all was over. Whatever 
were those last words he washed to speak, they remained 
unspoken. 

I rose and left him. I walked to the room wdiich w’as 
known as Mr. Julian’s room, and, I am thankful to say, 
wept. After all this man had given me much. But for 
him I might liave been consigned to the workhouse — might 
now be nothing more than a mason’s apprentice. Julian 
Loraine had at least given me the means to start fairly in 
life. Yes, he had been my benefactor. 

My grief, if not as deep as it should have been, w’as 
really sincere. It was some time before I began to reflect 
as to the immediate consequences his death would bring 
to myself. I had money in hand, for the allowcance made 
me by Mr. Loraine had ahvays been an ample one — so 
huge indeed that wdien the truth of my birth w’as knowm 
to me I had asked him to reduce it. The right I presumed 
to claim fell far short of this. Mr. I^oraine told me scorn- 
fully not to bother him about money matters ; so I had 
been unable to follow out the plan which I had laid down 


SLINGS AND ADKOWS. 


n 


of taking from him only sufficient for my needs. Never- 
theless I had not spent the surplus, and it would now 
serve me in completing my education. From him I ex- 
pected nothing. I had shown him both by act and word 
that I expected nothing. Who were his heirs, or to whom 
his wealth would be left, were matters about which I 
troubled little. Now that Julian Loraine was dead I could 
with a full heart thank him for all he had done for me. 
Then I could resign his name and force my own way in 
the world. 

Flis solicitor came down and gave instructions concern- 
ing the funeral. He did this at my request. Knowing 
that shortly I would be an alien in the house I would as- 
sume no responsibility. The only order I gave was that 
everything should be done quietly and simply. I knew 
the dead man’s ideas about conventional obsequies. 

The funeral over we looked for the will. I would not 
have a paper moved until then. We soon found it. 

“ Not that it makes much difference, I suspect,” said the 
solicitor, “you being his only son.” 

He was opening the envelope as he spoke. I said 
nothing. 

“ Shortest will I ever read,” said the solicitor ; “ made 
by himself too, but all quite right and legal.” 

He handed the paper to me. I read : 

“ / bequeath all my real and personal estate to 7ny adopted son 
Julian^ commonly know7i as Julian Loraine.'' 

This, duly signed and witnessed, was Mr. Loraine’s will. 
I sank on a chair, feeling dizzy and confused. Mr. Loraine 
dead was a greater puzzle to me than Mr. Loraine living. 
By a few words — dashed off, it might be, on the spur of 
the moment — he had left me ail his wealth. Was it from 
affection, sense of justice, cynicism, or what ? 

“ I did not know you were an adopted son, Mr. Julian,” 
said the lawyer in tones of surprise. 

“Yes,” I said, collecting myself. “ Do you think I shall 
be right in accepting this bequest ?” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“Are there no close relatives? Although I passed as 
his son, I know so little about him.” 

“ I suspect I know less. But I never heard Mr. Lo- 
raine speak of any relatives. His adoption of you proves 
you entitled to the money.” 


14 


SLINGS AND AI^ROfVS. 


I sat in deep thought. It was all so strange, so sudden. 

“ By the bye, Mr. Julian,” said the solicitor, “without 
wishing to intrude my advice, I should if I were in your 
place say nothing to let people know I was not Mr. Lo- 
raine’s son. He evidently wished it to thought you 
were. I fancy that by saying nothing you will best 
carry out his wishes. I myself shall keep silence on the 
matter.’* 

I weighed his counsel, and at last, rightly or wrongly, 
decided to follow it. No one could be harmed by my 
continuing to pass as the dead man’s son. The fact 
of liis having left me all his wealth showed, or I fancied it 
showed, that he looked upon me as a son ; so I buried the 
story of the shipwreck in my own breast, and was still 
Mr. Loraine of Herstal Abbey. 

I stayed my time at Oxford ; I took my degree. After 
this I went abroad for many months. I let Herstal Abbey, 
as I had no need of such a large place. When I returned 
to England I led the usual life, no better nor no worse, of 
a young man of fortune. 

Three years after the death of Julian Loraine I fell in 
love. 


CHAPTER HI. 

FIRST LOVE. 

It was about this time, I think, that such training as Mr. 
Loraine had indirectly given me began to bear its first full 
crop of fruit. When first I stepped into the world, the 
novelty and freshness of all I saw had kept the evil which 
I liad imbibed in the background. But now that I was a 
man, now that the glamour with^ which a boy surrounds 
everything had faded away, much of Mr. Loraine’s teach- 
ing, many of his cynical axioms, came back, perhaps un- 
awares, to me. The certainty wliich he had always felt as 
to some selfish m<;tive being the hidden mainspring in 
every action of man or woman, with me became at least 
suspicion. I had already met with false friends, who had 
under the guise of friendship robbed me not only of 
money, but of what I valued more — trust in my fellows. 
After a while I began to persuade myself that such popu- 
larity as I enjoyed was not due to my own merits, but to 


SLINGS AND ARROH'S, 


15 ^ 

my worldly possessions ; that I was by no means a fine 
fellow — merely a young man of large property. 

This feeling is a danger which continually besets a rich 
and sensitive man, especially if his companions are poorer 
than himself and his own nature is not such as can ac- 
cept flattery as his due. Under such circumstances, it 
is easy to develop much of the cynicism of Julian Lo- 
raine. 

Women had as yet done nothing to lower my self-es- 
teem. Until now I had not found the woman I could love 
One reason for this was that I was still of a romantic 
nature, and was resolved that whomsoever I asked to be 
my wife should love me for myself, not for my money; 

I wish, so far as possible, to keep this tale free from any 
sarcastic remarks of my own, but at that time I often 
wondered if the mothers of fair young daughters would 
have found me such a charming fellow had not Julian 
Loraine made that brief will. 

But at last I was in love — hopelessly, unreservedly, in 
love. My nature is, I believe, a passionate one, and now 
that it had found its aim, I gave it full and free scope. I 
loved madly, blindly, and, alas ! jealously. 

I had set my heart upon no daughter of a wealthy or 
well-born family. The girl I loved was not one whom I 
met in society ; yet I proudly thought of the day when 
every eye would turn and be dazzled by her beauty — 
when people who appraised the charms of fair women 
would rank those of my wife high above all. 

Of course I was partial — all lovers are — but now, as I 
glance from my paper to the portrait which hangs on the 
wall facing me, I tell myself that my love did not lead me 
far astray. 

The soft, thick, fair hair growing low down on the fore- 
head, and swept back over the ear to join the knotted, 
silky mass at the back of the head. The head itself small, 
well-shaped, and above all, well-poised. The large, soft, 
dark-blue eyes. The fringe of long, straight lashes — yes, 
straight, not curved — falling when the eyes are closed 
literally on the cheek. The girlish, yet perfect figure. Ah ! 
I need not look at the portrait to recall and describe my 
love ! 

For the rest, her name was Viola Keith. She was an 
orphan, and all but alone. 

How I mot her, where T met her, matters little. Nearly 
ail first r.ioeiings Uiku place under prusaic circumstances. 


SLINGS AND A/^ROIVS. 


j5 

Any way, as my eyes met hers, I told myself that I looked 
/at the one woman whom it was possible for me to love 
with an eternal love. 

[ knew nothing of her family or her surroundings. I 
cared to know nothing. One question only I asked my- 
self : Can I win her, and win her for my own sake ? 
Here, even here, in the first flush of my new love, suspi- 
cion of motive must be guarded against. 

So when, at last, I was able to tell her what name I bore, 
I changed it, and called myself Mr. Julian Vane. She 
should, if she loved me, marry me thinking she was marry- 
ing one in her own station of life. 

Not that her station was anything to be ashamed of. 
So far as I could gather, she was one of the many whose 
parents leave their children a slender provision, yet large 
enough to live upon in respectability and comfort. Viola, 
I found, lived in a small house, with a prim old dame, the 
pink of dignity and propriety, and who had formerly been 
the girl’s schoolmistress : a solitary, lonely life it must 
have been for the girl. 

I laughed as I thought how, if she loved me, I would 
draw her from her dull home, and show her the great 
world and the glories thereof. 

How was I to woo her ? We were not likely to meet at 
any mutual friend’s house. I had no sister, cousin, or any 
one who could do me a friendly turn in the matter. Yet 
every moment of suspense would be an age to me. I must 
do something. 

So one day I waited until I saw Viola leave the house, 
I watched her tall, graceful form pass out of sight, and by 
a great effort repressed my desire to follow her. Then I 
walked to her house, and requested to see Miss Rossiter, 
the prim old maiden lady aforesaid. 

I told her in plain words the object of my calling. I 
spoke frankly of my great love for her companion, and I 
begged that my hearer would aid me to remove obstacles 
which stood in the way of a closer intercourse. No doubt, 
with a lover’s cunning, I made myself most agreeable to 
the ancient gentlewoman. Permission was graciously ac- 
corded me to visit at the house — as a friend. 

I wanted no more. I rose to take my leave, longing for 
to-morrow to come, as I did not like to venture two visits 
on the first day. Just then the door opened, and Viola ap- 
peared. 

A look of surprise flashed into her face — surprise, but 


SLINGS AND ARROWS, 


*7 


not displeasure. A faint blush crossed her cheek, and 
these signs told me I should win her. 

Now that my foot was inside the citadel, I went to work 
fiercely, impetuously, to gain my desire. The days that 
followed are to me too sacred to be described ; but not 
many passed before I knew that Viola’s love was my 
own. 

We went to the kindly spinster who was responsible for 
Viola’s safety, and told her the glad news. The old lady 
dropped her knitting-needles, and looked bewildered. 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” she cried in horrified tones ; “ you can- 
not mean it ! ” 

Viola’s blush and my words showed her we were in sol- 
emn earnest. 

“ Oh, dear ? Oh, dear!” sighed Miss Rossiter. “What 
shall I do ? You have only known each other a week ! ” 

“ A day would have been long enough on my part ! ” I 
cried, looking rapturously at my lovely Viola. 

“ It is so sudden,” continued Miss Rossiter. “ I never 
dreamed of such a thing. In old days matters were man- 
aged much more decorously. I thought, Mr. Vane, you 
would be at least three months in making her acquaint- 
ance. Oh, dear ! I am much to blame ! ” 

The old soul seemed so distressed that Viola ran over and 
kissed her. 

“Oh ! what will Eustace say? He will blame me terri- 
bly. He is so masterful, you know, Viola.” 

“ Who is Eustace ? ” I asked. I thought that Viola’s face 
grew thoughtful as she heard the name. 

“Mr. Grant, my guardian and good friend,” she said. 

“Then I must see him. Where can I find him ?” 

“He is away,” said Miss Rossiter plaintively. “Oh, I 
am so much to blame ! I ought to have made all sorts of 
inquiries about you, Mr. Vane.” 

“ Your friend can make them on his return. When will 
that be?” 

“ No one knows. To-morrow, perhaps ; next month, 
next year. One never can say. Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! ” 

I laughed and drew Viola away. We were so happy 
that we forgot all about Miss Rossiter’s plaintive sighs, and 
I troubled nothing about Viola’s guardian. I did not even 
ask what manner of man he was. 

But two days afterward I knew. In the evening I called 
as usual at Miss Rossiter’s. Viola heard my knock and 
met me in the hall. 


2 


SLINGS AND ASA^OPrS, 


?8 

** Eustace came back to-day. He is here now,” she said 
joyfully. 

I kissed her and followed her into the room to make the 
acquaintance of her guardian. Although she had called 
him by his Christian name, I fully expected to find him a 
sober, middle-aged man ; but in the easy-chair, lounging 
as if the place belonged to him, and talking volubly to 
Miss Rossiter, I saw a strongly-built, sunburned man, who 
could be but few years my senior. He rose as I entered, 
and Viola shyly introduced us. 

He was tall — taller than I was. His shoulders were 
broad ; his limbs long and muscular. A man who, if not 
handsome, would certainly be noticed anywhere. The 
thought which succeeded my astonishment at his unex- 
pected appearance was, “ By what right is this man the 
guardian of the woman I love ? ” 

He gave me liis hand ; but not, I fancied, cordially. He 
looked me full in the face, and 1 knew that he was trying to 
gather from my looks some knowledge of myself. Then 
suddenly I saw a surprised expression on his face — saw 
the corners of his mouth droop as in half-suppressed scorn ; 
and from that moment my feelings toward him^'ere those 
of mistrust and dislike. 

He stayed so late that I was the one to make the first 
move. For once I was not sorry to leave Viola. The ap- 
pearance of this man among us, the close terms of inti- 
macy upon which it was clear he stood with Miss Rossiter 
and Viola, cast a kind of gloom upon me. I chafed at the 
thought that my happiness was in any way dependent 
upon his favor. I grew moody and silent, and for me the 
evening was a dull one. 

But not for my friends. This Grant was evidently a 
brilliant and clever talker. He narrated, in an amusing, 
way, his experiences in some out-of-the-way Alpine vil- 
lage in which, for some reason which did not transpire, he 
had been staying. Yet at times I fancied that his merri- 
ment was forced, and again. and again I saw his keen eyes 
turned on me with a searching glance which annoyed me 
beyond measure. 

When at last I rose he followed my example. Viola, as 
was her custom, accompanied me to the door of the house, 
but this evening I noticed, or fancied I noticed, a certain re- 
luctance and hesitation in her manner. Eustace Grant pass- 
ed on in front of us. He opened the door and stood on the 
step. I lingered for a inomciu to bid Viola a last good-ni?ht. 


SLIA'GS AA'D A A' ROWS, 


^9 

Presently Grant turned, as if impatient at my delay. 
There was a lamp exactly opposite the house, and the hall 
was also illumined. I could therefore see the man’s face 
distinctly, and there was an indescribable look in his eyes 
which told me the whole truth. This Eustace Grant, who- 
ever lie was, loved Viola even as I loved her ! All my 
jealous and mistrustful nature surged to the surface. I 
grasped Viola’s hand and hastily drew her into a little 
sitting-room close by. She looked at me in a startled 
manner. 

“Viola,” I said, “who is this man ?” 

“ Dearest, I told you : Eustace Grant, my guardian ! ” 

“ Who is he ? wdiat is his profession ?” 

“Ah! that is a secret as yet. He will tell you some 
day; for, Julian, you will love him like a brother when 
you know him.” 

“Never! Listen, Viola. That man is in love with you ! ” 

She made no answer, and by the light which passed 
through the half-opened door I saw a soft expression of 
pity and regret upon her sweet face. 

“ You know it ? ” I asked. 

She sighed. “ I am afraid if is so, or has been so. 
Poor Eustace ! ” 

The intonation of the last two words carried comfort to 
my heart. It told me that I need fear no rival. I em- 
braced Viola, and left her. Grant was still on the door- 
step. He was evidently waiting for me. I paused in the 
road, looking out for a vacant hansom. 

“ Do you mdnd walking a little distance with me Mr. 
Vane ? ” said Grant. 

“ I have some distance to go. I would rather drive.” 

“ I will not take you far, but I have something I must 
say to you.” 

He turned in an authoritative manner, as if fully expect- 
ing I should follow him. I hesitated, then joined him, and 
we walked side by side. 

There was frigid silence between us ; but as I glanced 
at the tall, manly figure by my side, as now and again by 
the light of the gas-lamps I saw that powerful, striking 
face, the demon of self-distrust began to rise again. How, 
I asked myself, could it be possible, all things being equal, 
for a woman to choose me in preference to this man ? And 
thanks to my concealing my name and true position, the 
chances apparently were that Grant had as much to offer 
a woman as I had. 


20 


SL/A^CS AND ARROWS. 


By and by my companion stopped and opened the door 
of a house with a latch-key. He invited me to enter, and 
showed me into a room on the ground-floor. Once inside 
his own house, his manner changed. He was now host, 
and I was a guest. He apologized for the state of confu- 
sion which reigned in the room. He had only returned to 
his lodgings yesterday, and had not yetgot things straight. 
The room, .although plainly furnished, showed that its 
tenant was a man of taste and culture. Books were scat- 
tered broadcast here, there, and everywhere. Grant swept 
a pile off the chair which he offered me. 

“ You smoke ?” he said, producing a cigar-case. “ I can 
give you some brandy and soda, too.” 

He opened the cupboard and brought out the bottles. 
I declined his proffered hospitality, and awaited his com- 
munication. He stood with his back to the mantle-piece, 
and mechanically filled a pipe. He did not however light 
it ; and although I looked as carelessly as I could in 
another direction, I knew that he was attentively scanning 
my face. This scrutiny became unbearable. 

“You have something to say to me, Mr. Grant?” I re- 
marked. 

“ Yes. I am only considering how to say it. I am some- 
thing of a physiognomist, and have been studying your face 
for my guidance.” 

I smiled scornfully, but said no more. He was welcome 
to look at me all night if he chose to do so. Suddenly, in 
a sharp, abrupt way, he spoke. 

“ Why are you passing under a false name ? ” he asked. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Oh, what a tangled web we weave, 

When first we practice to deceive ! “ 

The attack was so unexpected that I crimsoned, and for 
a moment was speechless. I knew that my true motive 
for the concealment was, in respect to Viola, if unworthily 
conceived, at least free from evil. This thought strength- 
ened me and I was able to face my interrogator. But all 
the same it was a great mortification to feel that in order 
to explain matters to this man I must, as it were, lay bare 
my most sensitive feelings. 


SLINGS AND ARROIVS. zi 

*‘You know my true name?” I asked. 

“ No. But I have seen you somewhere — Vienna, Paris 
—I forget where. Then you were not called Vane.” 

“ My name is Julian Loraine.” 

“Julian Loraine,” he repeated, musingly. “ I have heard 
that name in the world, and with little good attached to it. 
But it could not have referred to yourself. You are too 
young. 

“ But your reason for the deception ? Speak ! ” he said 
fiercely. 

I curbed my rising anger, and as well as I could told 
him why 1 had wooed Viola under a false name. I think 
he believed me, but I saw scorn on his face as he listened. 

“ The act of a fool,” he said. “ Mr. Loraine, such ro- 
mantic affairs should be left to poets and novelists. Viola 
Keith would need neither riches nor poverty with the man 
she loved. I tell you, if I were to go to-morrow and make 
known to her your doubt of her singleheartedness I could 
shatter the whole fabric of your happiness. Why should I 
not dojso ? ” 

“ It would be the act of a fiend,” I said. 

He laughed, not pleasantly. “ Yes, it would. I will not 
do it. I will even keep your secret and let you carry out 
your ridiculous plan. But I will also do this : I will follow 
you on your wedding morning and fee with my own eyes 
that you have married Miss Keith in your right name. 
No ! ” he said, seeing I was ready to spring from my seat 
in indignation, “No! 1 will have no protest. You have 
brought this upon yourself. You have given me the right 
to mistrust you.” 

“ Will you be good enough to show me the right by 
which you interfere at all ? ” I said. 

“Until her twenty-first birthday I am Miss Keith’s 
guardian.” 

“A very young one,” I sneered. 

“Yes ; but older than yon think. Her mother died six 
years ago. I was then thirty ; she thought me old enough 
to be her child’s guardian, and I will see the trust to the 
end.” 

The meaning thrown into the last sentence did not escape 
me. It implied that he still viewed me with distrust. My 
anger w^as thoroughly aroused. 

“ Perhaps, Mr. Grant,” I said, “there is a nearer and a 
dearer right you wish to exercise over your ward — one 
which she herself alone can bestow.” 


SLINGS AND ADROIVS. 


32 . 

He drew himself up to his full height. 

“That, sir,” he said calmly, “is ungenerous. I hoped 
that my love for Miss Keith was a matter unknown to all 
save myself. I love her as it may be beyond your power 
to love a woman. I would lay down my life for her far 
more easily than to-day I lay down my love. Yet I do 
this, and to you, my rival, can say, ‘ Take her and make 
her happy — make her happy.’ ” 

The repetition of the last three words was not a wish ; 
it was a command, a threat. 

Grant was still standing above me, and as I looked at 
him I saw that his face was pale, and on his forehead were 
drops of moisture. His appearance almost startled me ; 
but 1 said nothing. I rose and wished him good-night. 
Somehow, in spite of the dislike with which the man had 
inspired me, there was about him a strength and dignity 
which impressed me more than I cared to own. He ac- 
companied me to the door. When it closed I paused fora 
moment to light one of my own cigars. Then I crossed 
the road. As I did so I glanced back. The gas was* burn- 
ing in the room which I had just left, the blind was drawn 
up. I saw Grant enter, threw himself into the chair which 
I had left vacant, stretch his arms out on the table and lay 
his head upon them, like one in agonies of grief. He was 
bewailing the loss of the happiness which I had won. 

I pitied him, but I hated him. It seemed to me that if 
this man set his heart upon a woman’s love, sooner or 
later, she must give it to him. What would it be if now 
he used all his power to rob me of Viola ? I knew that till 
the ring was on her finger I should have no peace of mind. 

The next day, when I paid my visit to Viola, I was full 
of the fear that I should find Eustace Grant at her side, 
perhaps exercising all his craft. In spite of his assump- 
tion of frankness, I believed him to be crafty, to my disad- 
vantage. It was a fear which had no foundation. Neither 
on that nor on succeeding days did Grant in any way inter- 
fere with my monopoly of Viola. Once or twice I met 
him, apparently coming from the house. On these occa- 
sions he bowed gravely, but did not stop to speak. His 
visits were evidently paid at such times as did not clash 
with mine. I raged inwardly to think that he had the 
right to visit Viola at any time ; but I was too proud to 
remonstrate. It was some comfort to me to hear Miss 
Rossiter occasionally remark that they saw little or noth- 
ing of Eustace now. 


SLIA-GS AA'D ARROIVS. 


23 


. Viola seldom mentioned his name. No doubt, with a 
woman’s quickness, she understood that it was distasteful 
to me. Nevertheless, I knew that she held her guardian 
in the greatest esteem, and looked forward to the time 
when we should be friends. This I swore should never 
come. Viola once my wife, the acquaintance between her 
and this strong-willed, attractive man should cease. 

As I said, I am indeed a pitiful hero ! 

But if I saw nothing of Grant, I heard from him. He 
wrote me, telling me he had been informed by Miss 
Keith that our marriage was to take place very shortly. 
He would be glad to know my intentions respecting tlie 
settlement of her own small fortune. There was a pe- 
remptoriness about the wording of the letter which nettled 
me extremely. I wrote back that it was quite true we 
were to be married in a few weeks’ time, but that it was 
not my intention to settle my wife’s money upon her. The 
sum was too paltry to trouble about, as it would be quite 
lost sight of in the large post-nuptial settlement which I 
proposed making. If Mr. Grant felt any doubt as to my 
means, he could make inquiries of my solicitor, who had 
my instructions to answer all his questions fully. 

To this letter he did not reply ; but I heard that he made 
the inquiries, as I suggested. No doubt, in Viola’s inter- 
est, he was right in so doing ; but I liked him none the 
more for the action. 

Yes ; Viola overcome by my impassioned prayers had 
consented to an almost immediate marriage. There was 
indeed no reason why we should wait a day. She loved 
me, and was willing to trust her future in my hands. I 
loved her, and longed for the moment which would make 
her mine forever. Moreover, I longed for the time to 
come when I might tell her all ; confess the innocent but 
foolish deception I had practiced, and beg her forgiveness ‘ 
— not for mistrusting her, but her sex in general. I was 
sorely tempted to reveal the true state of affairs without 
further delay ; but Grant’s warning rose to my mind, and 
. I determined that until the irrevocable words were spoken 
I would keep my secret. 

We were married in the quietest way possible. Viola, it 
seemed to me, had no bosom friends — no relatives who 
would be mortified unless they were asked to the wedding. 
The old spinster, who looked very prim, and ready to ap- 
ply her favorite word “ indecorous,” to the whole proceed- 
ings ; a brother as prim as herself, and one trusted friend 


24 


SLINGS AND AR/iOlVS. 


of my own, formed the wedding guests. Eustace Grant 
had been asked to accompany us, but Viola told me that, 
for some reason or another, he had excused himself. At 
this she seemed greatly vexed. 

I was also troubled by his refusal. It showed too 
plainly his feelings, both toward me and toward Viola. 

But he was in the church ; he was there even before I 
was. As I walked up the aisle I caught a glimpse of his 
strongly-marked profile. He was in a far-off pew, and w’as 
almost the only spectator of the ceremony. Doubtless 
when Viola and I left the church, man and wife, Eustace 
Grant walked into the vestry, and as he had expressed his 
intention of doing, saw with his own eyes that I had mar- 
ried Viola in my true name. 

We drove straight from the church to the railway-sta- 
tion. When alone in the carriage, almost the first words 
my wife said were, “Julian, Eustace was in church ; did 
you see him ? ” 

“ Yes, I saw him.” 

“ Why did he not come and wish me good-by ? It was 
not like him. I must have offended him. I will write and 
ask him how.” 

I hated the idea of Eustace Grant being, in such a mo- 
ment as this, uppermost in my wife’s thoughts. “ Never 
mind, dearest,” I said ; “what is Eustace Grant to us?” 

“Oh, much, very much to me, Julian! He was ray 
mother’s friend, he has been my one friend ever since 
I can remember.” 

“ I do not like him,” I said. 

“ But you will like him ; you must like him. He is so 
good, so noble, so clever. Promise me, Julian, you will 
like him, for my sake.” 

Although I would not credit him with the two first quali- 
fications — goodness and nobility — I was willing to believe 
that Eustace Grant was clever — perhaps too clever. The 
disadvantage at which he had held me upon that night, 
when I was for the time, in his eyes, an impostor, rankled 
in ray mind. But to-day I could afford to be generous. 
I drew Viola close to me. 

^ “ Dearest,” I said, “ I will try and get rid of my preju- 
dice. I will try and forget that this man loved you and 
would have made you his wife. I will try to cease from 
wondering why, when he is so good, noble, and clever, you 
should have chosen me.” 

Viola laid her soft cheek against mine. “Julian, my 


SL/.VGS AND ARROyrS, 


husband," she whispered, “ are you not all that Eustace 
Grant is — and more ? I love you." 

With her words all my doubt, all my fear of Eustace 
Grant fled — never, I hoped, to return. With Viola’s arms 
round me, her kisses on my lips, I could afford to pity my 
unsuccessful rival. When we were installed in the com- 
partment of the train which was, by a venal arrangement 
of the guard’s, reserved to ourselves, I fell to considering 
) how I should best make known to Viola that the name by 
wliich she had hitherto known me was assumed. I was 
beginning, or fancied I was beginning, to know something 
of my wife’s true nature ; and I told myself that the task 
before me was not so easy as I had once imagined it 
would be. My confession was hurried on by a question 
she herself asked me, 

“Julian, what name was it you signed in the book at 
church ? ’’ 

I had hoped that in the agitation natural to a bride who 
signs her maiden name for the last time, she had not 
noticed my autograph. But she must ^have done so, al- 
though she had said nothing about it until now. 

So I made the plunge and told her all. Told her my 
true name, told her of the beautiful house in the west 
which would be ours, told her of the life, free from care 
and anxiety as to the future, which stretched before us. 
Then I besought her forgiveness for keeping her in igno- 
rance of these things. I had, be it said, given her to un- 
derstand that I was a man with an income just enough to 
live upon in comfort. 

Grant was right. He knew Viola when he told me that 
by revealing my deception he might destroy the fabric of 
my happiness. She said little, but her look told me she 
was hurt and wounded. I verily believe her first thoughts 
were that she would rather I had been what I represented 
myself to be, than to have the power of sharing such a 
home and so much wealth with her. How little men un- 
derstand women ! perhaps because no two women are 
alike. 

But Viola forgave me. A woman always forgives the 
man she loves, but I knew that she was sad at the thought 
that I could have dreamed that riches might have in- 
fluenced her. Nevertheless it was days before I could get 
her to join me unrestrainedly in the schemes which I wove 
of our future life. 

We went down to a quiet watering-place on the south 


•26 


SLINGS AND ARNOIVS. 


coast. Here we staid for a fortnight. Oh, those sweet 
summer days ! Shall I ever forget them ? For the time 
there seemed no cloud wliich could possibly shade our joy. 
All the cynical, suspicious, misanthropical elements seemed 
swept out of my nature. I told myself that the constant 
society of the wife I loved was making a better as well as 
a happier man of me. 

At the end of our stay by the sea it was our intentioi 
to return to London for a couple of days, and then sta’ 
for Switzerland. Here, or in what country we chose, w^ 
were to spend months. In fact I had as yet no home to 
offer my wife. The tenant of Herstal Abbey would not 
turn out without six months’ notice ; so for the time we 
must be wanderers. 

Eustace Grant — I had by now almost forgotten him — 
wrote once to my wife. She seemed overjoyed as she saw 
his handwriting, but vexed at the ceremonious way in 
which his letter began. It lies before me now. I copy it : 

My Dear Mrs. Loraine : You will remember that next 
Tuesday is your twenty-first birthday. 

“As I am going abroad very shortly, I am anxious to 
submit the accounts of the trust to you and, of course, Mr. 
Loraine. I hear that you will be in town on Tuesday. 
Can I call upon you anywhere, or would it be more con- 
venient for us to meet at my solicitor’s — Mr. Monk, 36 
Lincoln’s Inn Fields? Please let me know. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“ Eustace Grant.” 

“ He might have sent a word of congratulation,” said 
Viola in a vexed tone. “ How shall I answer this, Julian ? ” 

“ Say we will meet him at Mr. Monk’s at twelve o’clock 
on Tuesday.” 

To which effect Viola wrote. I did not read the letter, 
but I wondered at the length of it. 


CHAPTER V. 

“that it should come to this.” 

We reached town on the Monday night, and slept at an 
hotel Thursday morning we were to start for the Conti- 
nent Beside the interview with Eustace Grant, there 


SLINGS AND ADROIVS. 


27 


were many business matters to which I was bound to at- 
tend. I liad to see my own solicitor and give him instruc- 
tions about the settlement which I wished to make on 
Viola. I had also to make my will, a matter wliich uniii 
now I had neglected ; so that tiie Tuesday and Wednesday 
promised to be fully occupied. Viola also wished to pay 
a visit to her old friend, Miss Rossiter. The prim spinster 
would never forgive her if she passed througli town with- 
out calling. She did not press me to accompany her. 
Perhaps, in the present changed and unexpected state of 
affairs, she had much to say to her pld friend which could 
not well be said in iny presence. 

So I suggested she should go alone to her old home, 
spend an hour with her friend, and meet meat Mr. Monk’s 
at twelve o’clock. In the meantime I would go to my own 
solicitor’s and arrange my business, the purport of which 
I did not make known to my wife. I hired a private 
brougham for her, placed her in it, and stood at the win- 
dow saying adieu. It was the first time since our marriage 
that we had bpen parted for an hour. It was, moreover, 
her twenty-first birthday, and on her hand was a ring which 
I had just given her — a ring the value of which had startled 
her, for she had not yet realized what it was to be a rich 
man’s wife. 

As I wished her good-by, I remembered that my own 
business would take some time. “If I am not very punc- 
tual, you won’t mind waiting ?” I said, 

“No, I shall like it. Eustace will be there, and I have 
so much to say to him — so much to ask him. Don’t hurry, 
Julian.’’ 

I fancied that Viola wished to see Eustace Grant alone, 
if possible, in order to persuade liim, as she had tried to 
persuade me, that we had only to know more of each other 
to be like brothers. She could not understand the gulf 
between two men who love the same woman. I thought 
it was well she should see him. He would make clear to 
her the impossibility of anything like friendship existing 
between us. Just as I was about to bid the coachman 
drive off, Viola looked at me with a little pout. I knew 
its meaning. I passed my head through the carriage win- 
dow. My shoulders insured strict privacy. Then a light 
kiss fell upon my lips, and a word of love passed between 
us. I linger on these trivial evidences of affection. It will 
soon be seen why. 

I watched the carriage which held all I loved join in the 


2S 


SLIATGS AND ARROIVS. 


broad stream of traffic. Then I lighted my cigar, and, the 
happiest man in England, walked over to my solicitor’s. 

My business took even longer than I expected it would. 
There was much to discuss. What stock could be settled 
as it stood — what should be sold out — who were to be trus- 
tees — what was to happen in the event of Viola’s death : 
was she to have power of appointment or not ? All sorts 
of questions like this had to be ventilated. The conse- 
quence was that when I glanced at my watch I found it 
was nearly one o’clock. I told my solicitor I must defer 
giving instructions for my will until to-morrow. I jumped 
into a cab, and drove to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, No. 36, ready 
to make the fullest apologies for my unpunctuality. 

I went up-stairs, found Mr. Monk’s office, and sent my 
name in to him by his clerk. I was invited to enter his 
private room. Mr. Monk was busy with some papers. 

“ You will find your friends in the next room, Mr. Lo- 
raine,” he said. I will join you in a moment.” 

The clerk opened a green-baize door, through which I 
passed, and found myself in another office. In it, however, 
were no signs of Viola and Grant. I returned to Mr. 
Monk, and told him they were not there. 

“ Then they must have grown tired waiting for you, and 
have gone for a stroll. There is a door which opens into 
the passage. No doubt they went that way. You must 
sit down and take your turn at waiting, Mr. Loraine.” 

I waited half^an hour, then determined to go in search 
of them. It was possible they had gone to look for me ; 
so I went down into the street, and asked the driver of the 
brougham if he had seen the lady. 

‘•Yes, sir; she went by about an hour ago with a tall 
gentleman.” 

“ Which way ? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir. I saw them hail a cab and drive off. 
I didn’t notice in which direction they went.” 

Why in the world should they have taken a cab, when 
the brougham was at the door ? 1 was very cross at the 

thought of Viola’s driving about London in a cab with Eus- 
tace Grant ; but as the brougham was still waiting at 
No. 36 it was clear that they meant to return. After all, 
the best thing I could do was to wait. As yet not a 
thought of the truth had ventured to invade my brain. 

So I waited on the pavement outside Mr. Monk’s office 
for at least an hour longer. Still no sign of my wife. I 
grew nervous and anxious. Surely some accident must 


SLIXGS AXD ARROWS. 


29 


have happened — something that obliged her to go straight 
to the hotel. But even then Grant would have come to 
let me know it. Still not a thought of the dreadful truth! 
But where could she be ? 

1 jumped into the brougham and drove to the hotel. 
No ; Mrs. Loraine was not there. 

I drove to Miss Rossiter’s. Viola had been there in the 
morning, but had left about half-past eleven o’clock. I did 
not see Miss Rossiter, who I was sorry to hear was ill in 
bed. As a last resource, I drove to Grant’s house and 
asked for him. He was out. Had not been home 
since the morning. Quite uncertain when he would re- 
turn. 

It was now past three o’clock. Anxious and annoyed, I 
could do nothing but go back to the hotel and wait my 
wife’s return. Still not a thought of the truth. 

I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening passing 
from the hotel to Miss Rossiter’s, from there to Grant’s 
lodgings, and from Grant’s lodgings back , to the hotel. 
Only at one of these three places could I hope to find tid- 
ings of Viola. Repeatedly as I had called, it was not 
until nearly eleven o’clock that I found Eustace Grant at 
home. 

But by now I was in a different mood. Shall I be 
blamed for saying that this long and unexplained absence 
of Viola’s, in company, it seemed, with Grant, brought a 
horrible dread which I scarcely dared to breathe to myself ? 
The news that Grant was at last at home lifted a weight 
from my heart. He would be able to tell me when and 
where he parted with Viola. No doubt he had a message 
for me wdiich w'ould clear up everything. 

But although Mr. Grant was at home, the servant in- 
formed me that he would see no one to-night. I made no 
comment on this denial. I simply forced the door open, 
and putting the frightened servant aside, strode through 
the hall and entered the sitting-room in which Grant had 
on the night when I first met him interrogated me. It 
was empty. I threw myself into a chair, and waited until 
some one made my presence known to the man whom I 
was bent upon seeing. 

No doubt he heard the noise of my forcible entrance. 
In a minute the folding-door, which, as is often the case in 
lodgings, divided the sitting-room from the bedroom, 
opened, and Eustace Grant appeared. As he did so I 
caught a glimpse of the bedroom from which he emerged 


30 


SLINGS AND ARKOiVS. 


An open portmanteau, apparently half-packed, was lyin^ 
on the bed, and there were other evidences of preparation 
for a journey. 

Grant advanced toward me, but he made no pretence of 
greeting me. He neither offered his hand nor bade me 
good-evening. I rose and faced him. 

He was pale, almost ghastly pale. His brows were bent, 
and a slight twitcla of the nostril told me he was suffering 
from some great, though suppressed emotion. He looked 
at me haughtily and angrily ; but whatsoever he had 
wherewith to reproach himself, there was neither fear nor 
triumph in his gaze. I looked at him and wondered ; but 
I felt certain that he knew all about Viola’s absence. 

Still, as that absence might even now be satisfactorily 
explained, I resolved that I would not, by evincing pre- 
mature distrust or suspicion, let this man triumph over me. 
So I spoke with forced composure. 

“ Mr. Grant, I have missed my wife somewhere. Can 
you give me tidings of her ?” 

“ I cannot,” he replied coldly. 

“ Where did you part with her ? You left Mr. Monk’s 
with her in a cab. Where did you leave her ?” 

“I cannot tell you, Mr. Loraine.” 

“ Do you mean that you are ignorant of her where- 
abouts ? ” 

“You have had my answer.” 

My blood boiled. “You mean you will not, dare not 
tell me, you utter villain ! ” I cried. “ I will know, or I 
will kill you ! ” 

The table was between us, or I should have sprung at 
at his throat. 

“ I care nothing for your threats, Mr. Loraine,” he said 
with galling contempt. “Wherever Mrs. Loraine may be 
she is there of her own free choice.” 

“ She is here— in this house with you !” I exclaimed. 

“ Look for her— search every cupboard and cranny. I 
will ring ; you shall be conducted over the whole building. 
Make it public property that you are a jealous husband 
looking for a faithless wife. No ; that shall not be done, 
for her sake. Wherever she is, she is not here.” 

He spoke as if expecting me to believe him. Strange to 
say, I did believe him. The thought that his house would 
be the last place in which he would hide Viola from my 
search no doubt conduced to this belief. But now I could 
no longer doubt the horrible truth. This man by some 


SLIiVCS AxVD ARROIVS, 


devilish craft had torn my wife from me — had taken away 
the woman who a few hours ago pressed a Judas’s kiss on 
my lips even as she was going to meet her lover. 

Stay! perhaps he had killed her. Such things have 
been done before now by men who fail to win the woman 
they love. Perhaps he had decoyed her away and was de- 
taining her against her will Even now she might be 
longing for me to come and free her. 

All these thoughts whirled through my brain and for a 
moment unmanned me. I sank upon a chair, cold and 
trembling in every limb. Grant stood like a statue until 
I recovered myself. 

You villain ! ” I gasped. I will know — I will see her ! 

Tell me where she is ! ” 

He leaned forward. He looked at me sternly. 

Listen ! ” he said in a fierce voice. In this room I 
said to you, ^Take her and make her happy.’ Have you 
done so ? ” 

I laughed wildly. “ If being willing to shed one’s 
blood for her can make a false woman happy, she should 
have been happy. Does she expect to find bliss in a life 
of shame with you ?” 

His eyes blazed. You had better go,” he said. Go 
at once ! ” 

I laughed mockingly. Now that I had lost all hope, 
now that my one desire vras vengeance, I could speak 
calmly. 

“ I shall stay here,” I said, until you leave to join her. 
I shall follow and be with you. Surely a bridegroom can 
claim the right of bidding his bride God-speed ! Here I 
stay. ” 

For reply Grant rang the bell. Leave the front door 
and this door wide open,” he said to the servant ; “ then 
go out of tiie way.” 

He came toward me. I started to my feet and struck 
fair and full at his white, set face. He parried the fierce 
blow and in a moment his arms were around me. 

Although physical strength is an accident, or at the most 
an inheritance, no man likes to confess tliat another is im- 
measurably his superior in muscular power. So it is with 
feelings of keen annoyance that I am obliged to relate the 
result of that hand-to-hand struggle. I was strong, and 
had measured my strength with many, but never with such 
a man as this. The moment we closed I felt that I should 
be conquered — that right does not always gain the victory. 


3 ^ 


SLIjVGS and arrows. 


Grant's arms were like bars of iron, tlie girth of his chest 
almost abnormal ; moreover he stood two inches taller 
than I did. Had I been told that any man could have lifted 
me from my feet, carried me through two open doors, and 
finally thrown me staggering into the centre of the road- 
way, I should have laughed the idea to scorn. But 
Eustace Grant did all this, and shut and bolted the outer 
door before I could recover myself. 

Mad with the rage of defeat I grasped the railings and 
panted for breath. I cursed Eustace Grant. I cursed my 
faithless wife. I cursed myself and my impotence. Such 
was my state that, could I have obtained a pistol, I would 
have waited on that doorstep and shot the man who had 
betrayed me as soon as he emerged from his place of 
safety — shot him dead without compunction. Nor was my 
mind any way soothed by hearing the window thrown up 
and seeing my hat tossed out contemptuously. I Avas fain 
to stoop and pick it up, in order to save myself from be- 
coming an object of curiosity to passers-by. 

What was I to do ? My mind at present could only 
grasp one fact — that Grant had by some diabolical means 
induced Viola to leave me and give herself to him. For a 
while my course seemed limited to one issue : I must wait 
here outside his house until at last he came forth. Then 
I must dog his footsteps until they led me to the faithless 
woman who had ruined my life and brought me to shame. 
I groaned at the thought of what little more than twelve 
hours had done. This morning I was the happiest man in 
England ; to-night I was the most miserable ! 

So for hours I walked up and down in front of the house 
which held the traitor. I saw the lights extinguished. 
Once or twice I saw the blind drawn aside, and guessed 
that Grant was looking out to see if I had left my post. 
No, you traitor ! you villain ! 1 am still there, and shall be 
there until you come out. Then I will dog you to the 
bitter end. 

The hours went by, the dawn began to break. Still — an 
object of curiosity, if not suspicion, to tlie policeman — I 
kept my post, and should have kept it for hours longer 
had it not all at once occurred to me that so long as I Avas 
there, so long would Grant remain Avhere he was. I must 
meet craft with craft. Nevertheless, I must perforce keep 
watch until I could find some one to Avhom the task might 
be deputed. 

At seven o’clock I Avas able to gain admission to an old- 


SLINGS AND ARROIVS. 


33 


fashioned family and commercial inn which stood some 
short distance off. The bay-window of the coffee-room 
commanded a view of Grant’s house. Here I seated my- 
self, and having obtained a London Directory, wrote and 
dispatched a letter to a well-known private detective, re- 
questing that a clever, trustworthy man might at onc.e be 
sent to me. Then from the window of the hotel I resumed 
my watch. 

At nine o’clock the man whom I had summoned arrived. 
I told him what to do. He was to wait until he saw Grant 
depart. He was to follow him, and having ascertained his 
destination, was to telegraph to me at once. Then I left 
the accursed spot, went back to my hotel, and tried to sleep. 

As I entered the room which Viola and I had occupied, 
I could almost persuade myself that I had dreamed the 
events of the last twenty-four hours. All her personal 
effects were as she left them : her gloves, her brushes, 
her toilet indispen sables were all there. Even her watch 
she had left behind her. She broke the spring at the sea- 
side, and there was no time to get it repaired before we 
started for the Continent ; besides I had intended buying 
her a new one in Paris. To-morrow — yes, to-morrow wcmld 
be Thursday — to-morrow we had proposed crossing to 
France. Heavens ! what did it all mean ? 

Sleep, with my mind in this whirl, was unattainable. 
Later in the day, more for something to do than in pur- 
suance of any hope, I went to Viola’s old home, and asked 
if she had been there to-day. No, not since yesterday 
morning. This the servant rather wondered at, as Miss 
Rossiter was very ill ; two doctors were with her now. 

In my present frame of mind I cared nothing for the old 
lady’s illness ; but I knew that the motive which kept 
Viola from her side when suffering must be a strong one. 
Yet little a woman who could leave her husband as she 
had left me would reck for the ailments of a friend ! 

Curses on her false, fair face ! 

The hours passed somehow. At three o’clock a tele, 
graphic message was brought me. I tore it open. It was 
sent from Folkestone, and ran so : 

• 

“ Followed him here. He left by Boulogne boat Was 
joined on pier by lady. Tall, closely veiled, faii hair. 
Wore costly ring of diamonds. Seemed ill and upset. Did 
not follow to France, having no instructions to leave Eng- 
land." 


5 


34 


SLIjVGS and arrows. 


The last, the very last hope was gone ! Viola and 
Eustace Grant had fled together ! I ground my teeth. I 
bit my lips until the blood came. I cursed the detective’s 
stupidity at not having followed them, if needs be, half 
over the world. Surely I had given the fool ample instruc- 
tions ! For the future I would trust no one but myself. 
I threw a few things into a portmanteau ; I rang for a 
time-table. Was there a train I could catch — was there a 
steamer which crossed to-night ? Perhaps at Boulogne I 
might get once more on the track of the fugitives. 

But before I had solved the doubt about trains and 
steamers I had changed my mind. Why should I follow? 
Let them go, and my curse go with them. I will not take 
at present one step in pursuit. I will have vengeance, but 
vengeance by waiting will be the more complete. See ! 
she must love this man madly, even as I loved her, or she 
would not have done this thing. He, too, must love her. 
Let my silence, my quietness, lull them into false security. 
Let them dream their dream of happiness even as I 
dreauicd mine. Then I will find them and strike ! 

For I swore that sooner or later, by fair means or foul, 
Eustace Grant should die by my hand ! 


CHAPTER VI. 

A CLEW. 

I hate the task of describing what manner of life I led 
during the next two years. I hate the memory of every 
thing connected with that time. I wish it could be blotted 
out from my mind. Two years which hold no action, no 
thought of my own, to which I can look back with any 
pleasure. I must write of that wretched time, but I will 
make its record as short as possible. 

Nevertheless I will be candid, and show myself in as 
bad a light as truth compels. I do not seek to excuse my- 
self by saying that many another in my place would have 
acted as I acted. I hope there are few in the world who 
have passed through such grief and shame as mine. 

At first, without for a moment losing sight of the ven- 
geance which I meant to take on the traitor, Eustace Grant, 
I set myself the task of forgetting the false woman who 
had fled from my side. I vowed I would destroy the love 


SLINGS AND ADROIVS. 


3 ^ 

I bore her, and learn to look upon her with scorn and 
contempt, as the basest of her sex. If the thought of su- 
ing for a divorce entered my head I banished it” at once. 
I cared not to resume my freedom. So long as I was 
bound to one woman there was no chance of my being 
cajoled and deceived by another, if ever I could be fool 
enough to love and trust another woman as I had loved 
and trusted Viola. 

Beside, I shrank from the exposure ; I shrank from the 
thought of being made a public laughing-stock, as a man 
whose wife left him a fortnight after her marriage. No ; 
I would teach myself to scorn, loathe, forget her^ — that 
was all. 

But how to forget ? If I cursed her by day I dreamed 
of her by night. Then she came to me sweet and pure as 
I thought her on the day when I made her my wife. I 
saw her soft eyes, her graceful form ; I heard her fresh 
young loving voice, and in my dreams was happy, for I 
could never dream evil of her. But again and again when 
I awoke, and remembered what she now was, I sobbed as 
few strong men permit themselves to sob, and then only 
in the dead of night wdien none can hear or sec them. 

I would forget ! I swore I would forget ! So in search 
of forgetfulness I plunged into a whirl of fierce dissipation. 
I became to all appearance the most reckless of a reckless 
set. I gambled for large sums. I lost or won thousands 
at a sitting ; yet only proved to myself that I was as in- 
different to money as I was to everything save the loss of 
Viola. Curiously enough I did not ruin myself at the 
gambling-table. On the whole I won largely, and so con- 
stantly that my luck became a by-word. My luck ! I 
smiled bitterly as men spoke of me as “lucky Loraine.” 

I tried in every way to force the memory of Viola from 
iny mind. For a while — I blush to say so — I drank to ex- 
cess ; perhaps I hoped to kill myself. In these and other 
unworthy ways I passed half the year. 

Then came the reaction — the loathing of self — the dis- 
gust of the life I was leading. I sickened at the sight of 
my boon companions. Everything wms w^eariness ; noth- 
ing brought the flush of excitement to my cheek or carried 
me for a moment away from my grief. Suddenly I turned 
my back upon all my pursuits. I went down to Herstel 
Abbey, which was now at my disposal, and with as supreme 
a contempt for mankind as ever my predecessor felt, I 
buried myself even as he had done. 


SL/NGS AiVD ARROWS, 


'^5 

And people around said that eccentricity ran in families, 
and that young Mr. Loraine was following in his fatlier’s 
steps. 

But why during these months had I not sought the ex- 
citement of revenging myself upon the man who had 
wronged me? Wiiy had I not kept my vow of killing 
him when his dream of joy was at its height ? Simply be- 
cause I knew not where to look for him. He and his no 
less guilty companion had left no trace behind them — no 
clew that might be followed until it brought me face to 
face with them. I had made inquiries, and inquiries were 
still being made on my behalf; but as yet I had not dis- 
covered Grant’s hiding-place. He seemed to be a man 
with, so far as I could ascertain, no friends or connections. 
Miss Rossiter, with whom it is possible he or Viola might 
have corresponded, died two days after the elopement. Her 
brother I found, but he could give me no intelligence. 
Mr. Monk, the solicitor, acting he said on instructions, 
refused to give me any. So I could do nothing but grind 
rny teeth, and long for the hour when my path might once 
more cross Eustace Grant’s. I was fatalist enough to be- 
lieve that sooner or later this must happen. 

I lived on in the dreary solitude of Herstal Abbey. 
Each day found me more cynical and misanthropical ; but 
each day I renewed my vow of vengeance. Its accomplish- 
ment was the only thing in life to which I could look for- 
ward. When Grant lay dead at my feet, life for me would 
be at an end. So the months passed. If the original 
Julian Loraine could have seen me as I sat hour after hour 
brooding in his chair he would have thought the son of his 
adoption well worthy of his choice. 

So the long months passed. Spring, summer, autumn, 
winter came and went, making little difference to me. 
Once or twice I forced myself to quit my seclusion and 
pay a visit to London or Paris, in. the hope of finding dis- 
traction and forgetfulness. My efforts availed nothing, and 
I returned to my home more moody and miserable than 
when I left it. 

I had, for the sake of occupation, performed a task 
until now postponed. 

I went through my reputed father’s letters and private 
papers. I found nothing that in any way bore upon my- 
self, except a written account of the shipwreck and my 
birth on the barren rock. It was signed by the narrator. 
Although the existence of this paper made no difference 


SLhVGS AXD ARROIVS. 


37 


to me, I put it c'xway under lock and key. Yet, for all I 
cared, the whole world might know that Julian Loraine 
was not my father. Such trivial things as accidents of 
birth were now matters of indifference to me. 

1 he other papers I burned. I did not read one-half of 
them. They clearly showed what manner of man was 
Julian Loraine before he bought Herstal Abbe} and set- 
tled down to the life of a recluse. My life, I told myself, 
was spoiled — spoiled by a woman’s treachery ! And yet I 
could not bring myself to liate her. No — let the truth be 
knovvn — I loved her even now — loved her, although she 
was living in shame with my enemy. I hungered, 1 craved 
for a sight of her face. The touch of her hand would 
have thrilled me as of old. Although 1 told myself that 
were she at my feet praying for pardon, I would spurn her 
and cast her from me, \ knew that I lied. I knew that if 
Viola came to me — if my eyes once more met hers — I 
should throw all manhood’s pride to the winds and — such 
was the strength of mypassion — take this faithless woman 
to my heart and hold her there until, as I told myself bit- 
terly, some fresh lover robbed me again. 

Such being my true feeling, picture my emotion when 
one morning I found a letter lying on my table — a letter 
addressed to me in Viola’s handwriting ! I tore it open 
with a cry of delight ; I pressed it to my lips. Had not 
her fingers touched it ? Then I read. It was but one line : 

“ If you knew all, you might forgive.” 

“If I knew all!” What more was there to know? I 
knew that she had left me without a word or a sign of 
warning; that she had fled, accompanied by a man who 
had loved her passionately long before I ever set eyes 
upon her; that they were, somewhere or otlier, hidden 
from pursuit. Heaven! what more could I wish to know? 

“ Lorgive ! ” Yes — shame on my weakness for saying 
so — I could forgive. I could do more : I could persuade 
myself that this strong-willed man had forced her to fly 
with hi[n, perhaps half against her wish. I could believe 
that she was unhappy, that she was penitent, that she 
loved me still. I could do more than forgive, I could take 
her- — I should he forced to take her — again to my heart ; 
even to trust her, and be proud of her glorious beauty. 
Yes, I could do this — after I had seen Eustace Grant lying 
lifeless at my feet. Weak as I was, it could not be until then ! 


SL/jVCS AiYD arrows. 


sS 

Where was he ? Where was she ? Were they together? 
I turned again to the letter. It gave me no information 
as to the writer’s whereabouts. The paper and the en- 
velope were plain ; the latter bore the London post-mark. 
It was creased, which told me it had been sent under cover, 
to be posted in London. Sent to wliorn ? The receipt of 
this scrap of paper Avorked a great change in me. If I 
had ever been approaching that state in which a man ac- 
cepts the inevitable, it lifted me out of it. 

It spurred me on to make fresh exertions to discover 
the retreat of the fugitives. That letter — the letter written 
by her — I carried next my heart day and night. False as 
my wife had been to me I loved her ; and there were 
times when I recalled her sweet face, and marvelled how 
evil could have lurked beneath such a mask. ^ 

I left Herstal Abbey and took up my quarters in town. 
There I should be ready to start on the moment I heard 
where Grant was to be found. But somehow I was be- 
ginning to think that our meeting would be brought about 
by pure chance. London is the place where all chance 
meetings occur. There are few Englishmen who do not 
visit the capital, either at shorter or longer intervals. 
Something must bring Grant there ; so I waited and 
hoped. 

Chance, pure chance, brought about what I longed for, 
but not in the way I expected. I did not stumble across 
my foe in the street, I did not hear a chance mention of 
his name, and so hit upon some one who knew him. I 
found Eustace Grant in this wise. 

This year a book, which at once took the public’s fancy 
immensely, made its appearance. It was but a novel, 
yet a work the depth and research of which, combined 
with its pathos and humor, arrested all readers’ attention. 
People were curious to know who was the author. The 
title page bore one c)f those names which strike every one 
as being a nom de-plume. Perhaps the book was not the less 
read because a certain aniount of mystery was kept up as 
to Avho had really written it. 

Sometimes, not often, since that crushing blow had fallen 
upon me, I read what happened to come in my way. This 
particular book was one which came in my way. I began 
to read it, and am bound to say that the opening chapters 
were w'ritten by so masterly a hand that I at once experi- 
enced something of the general interest which the tale 
had called forth. But before I had read it half throimh 

O 


SLJiVGS AiVD ARI^OIVS. 


39 


my interest and excitement were such as no author has by 
his merits ever awakened in any reader. I gave a fierce 
cry of triumph. I threw the book from me as if it were a 
reptile. 1 had found Eustace Grant ! 

For one chapter of that book contained an account of 
the 'hero’s journeying through a part of Switzerland, and 
the account was the same as Grant had given his auditors 
on the night when first I met him, and hated and mis- 
trusted him. Several of the most amusing and out-of-the- 
way incidents which he then related, and which were suf- 
ficiently droll and strange to impress themselves on my 
memory, were in these pages once more narrated. Eus- 
tace Grant was the author of the successful book. I 
thanked my memory, which had in a second brought his 
adventures back to my mind ; and memory brought back 
more than this. 

It brought back Viola, listening with smiles on her face 
to her guardian’s (as she called him) amusing recital. It 
brought back the days when I wooed her ; the day when I 
told her my love ; the day when she was mine, as I thought 
forever ; the day, the black day, when she fled — when for 
hours and hours I waited and would not believe the trutli. 
It brought back the last two wretched years of my life. It 
brought back all of which Eustace Grant had robbed me, 
and I laughed the laugh of a devil when I thought that 
the time was at hand when he should pay me for his act. 

I trod his book under my foot. Hypocrite, who could 
write of honor, virtue and truth, yet act as he had acted ! 
Well, his time has come at last ! 

But now to find him — to know where I must go, to stand 
face to face with liim ! The next morning I called on the 
publishers of the book. I told them I had reason for be- 
lieving that its author was an old friend of mine. Would 
they tell me his right name ? 

They could not. They believed he wrote under a pseu- 
donym ; but they knew him by no other. I asked if they 
could show me a letter of his. Certainly. A letter was 
handed me. I placed it side by side with the letter which 
Grant had written me just before my marriage, and which 
I had fortunately preserved. I compared the handwriting ; 
then returned the author’s letter to the publishers. 

Thank you,” I said. “ I find I am mistaken. My friend 
is not such a fortunate man as I hoped to find him.” Then 
I went my way. Mistaken ! No, I was not mistaken ; but 
I feared lest in writing to Grant, his publishers might men- 


40 


SLINGS AND ARROWS. 


tion the fact of my having made these inquiries. No : 
every doubt was now set at rest. The two letters were 
written by the same man — written by Eustace Grant. As 
1 looked at the second letter, I had impressed the address 
upon my memory. It was dated from St. Seurin, a place 
wlilch upon inquiry I found was little more than a fishing 
village on the west coast of Brittany. 

They had not fled very far then ! The nearer the better ! 
Every hour which must pass before Eustace Grant and 
I meet will be grudged by me. In forty-eight hours we 
may be face to face ! 

That evening I left London. My preparations for the 
journey were soon made. Among them was included the 
purchase of a pair of double-barreled, breech-loading pis- 
tols, which carried heavy bullets, and were warranted to 
shoot straight as a line. I had already learned that in a 
hand-to-hand struggle my foe was my superior. I laughed 
as my fingers closed lovingly on the handle of the weapon 
which placed us on an equality. 

So I started to end Eustace Grant’s dream as suddenly 
as he had ended mine 1 


CHAPTER VII. 

FACE TO FACE. 

The journey to St. Seurin occupied more time than I 
anticipated. I reached Paris the next morning, and with- 
out halting for rest, took the first train to Rennes. From 
Rennes I had to go to L’Orient, which I found was as far 
as the railway could carry me toward my destination. 

Rennes I reached in the evening. Here I was compelled 
to spend the night, there being no train to L’Orient until 
the next morning. The morning train was a painfully 
slow one ; it was not until" late in the afternoon of the 
second day that I reached the fortified port on the Bay of 
Biscay. 

There I inquired as to the best way of getting to St. 
Seurin. I found the place was nearly twenty miles away. 
A diligence which passed it left L’Orient every other 
morning at ten o’clock. I must wait and go by that. 

I ciiafcd at the time wliich must ekapsc before I met my 


SLINGS AN-D ARROIVS, 


41 


enemy, and was on the point of ordering a carriage and 
horses to take me to St. Seurin at once. But reflection 
told me that the arrival of a traveller in such a way, at a 
village so small as I ascertained St. Seurin to be, must ex- 
cite curiosity. People would gossip, and the man whom 
I longed to meet might hear of my arrival, and once more 
fly and leave no trace. So I curbed my impatience, stayed 
the night at L’Orient, and started in Ihe morning by the 
lumbering old diligence. 

Why is it, that when one is burning to reach a certain 
place, the sole available mode of progression seems not 
only the slowest, but in many cases actually is the slowest 
that can well be hit upon. Those twenty miles, or their 
equivalent in kilometres^ seemed longer than all the rest of 
the journey. True, the road was in many places steep, 
and the heavy vehicle not adequately horsed ; and very 
likely no one save myself was in a hurry. 

But the most wearisome journey ends at last. A snail, 
if allowed time, will arrive at his goal. The diligence 
reached St. Seurin, and as I dismounted in front of a 
miserable-looking little inn I could scarcely repress a cry 
of exultation. Eustace Grant was all but within my grasp. 

I entered the inn, where I was received with joyful 
faces. Guests were no doubt few, and their visits far 
between. 1 asked if I could have accommodation, and 
was assured I could count upon- the best out of Paris. At 
another time this grandiloquent assertion would have 
amused me. Now nothing amused me, and I cared for 
nothing so long as I could have food and drink, and a 
place to lay my head until I had accomplished my mission. 

I dined, for I was beginning to feel the effects of the ex- 
hausting journey. Then I walked out, and took stock of 
my surroundings. 

St. Seurin was, as I had been informed, a smallj decaying 
village. Some of the houses were picturesque in their 
way, but many w^ere half in ruins. There was a church, 
whose size was of course utterly disproportioned to the 
village. There were the shops necessary to supply the 
humble needs of the scanty population. So far as I could 
see, there was nothing else. 

I struck my heel on the dusty, sandy path. Was it for 
a life in such a place as this that Viola had left me ? Had 
she given up all the comforts and luxuries with which I 
would have surrounded her, to hide with the partner of 
her flight in a wretched hole where she could see no one 


42 


SLINGS AND ARROWS. 


save rough fishermen, peasants, and such like ? If so, her 
love for Grant must be more than mortal to bring about 
such a sacrifice of all that women, from the time of Eve 
downward, have been credited with longing after. These 
questions, and the only answer I could give to them, did 
not improve the state of my mind. 

It was now growing dusk. I walked back to the little 
inn, went to my room, and asked for lights and coffee. A 
broad-faced, broad-shouldered Breton lass ministered to 
my wants. I entered into conversation with her, and in 
spite of her patois managed to understand her. 

I asked about the place and the people. She shrugged 
her shoulders. Ah ! but the place was decaying — going 
down — gone down. Once she had heard that people 
could live there and make money ; but that was hundreds 
of years ago. Now everyone was poor as poor could be. 
Parents could not give their daughters dots — girls could 
not save them. Beside, many of the young men went 
away. They went to L’Orient and became sailors. It was 
a rare thing for a girl to get married in St. Seurin. 

Were there no visitors — no English, for instance — stay- 
ing in the neighborhood ? No — yes. There was one 
monsieur — he was English. He lived at Pierre Boulay’s 
farm — the farm just over the sea cliff yonder ; the house 
nearest to the sea. 

His name ? Ah ! she forgot those strange names. He 
was tail and handsome. He had been here off and on 
many months. He was a heretic, but kind to poor people. 
What did he do with himself in this desolate place ? Ah ! 
she knew not. True, young Jean, old Pierre’s son, said 
that the gentleman shut himself up for hours and hours, 
writing, and the cure, who knew him, said he was a learned 
’ man. 

It was he ! My journey had not been in vain. I longed 
to ask the girl if a lady lived with him, but I forced the 
question back. Wlien I had finished with Eustace Grant, 
I could then think of Viola.. 

Where was he to be found ? Was he at the farm now ? 
She thought not. She had not seen him for some days. 
Most days he came down the hill, and walked along the 
coast— far, far along the coast. If monsieur wished to 
meet with him, he would surely find him there. 

Yes ; the coast was very fine. Sometimes artists came 
, to paint it. Perhaps monsieur was an artist ? 

She glanced at me. No' doubt niy coming I lad created 


SL/A^GS AND ARROWS, 


43 


curiosity. The question suggested an excuse for my stay- 
ing at such a place as St. Seurin. 

Yes ; she had guessed right. I was an artist. I had 
came to draw pictures of the coast. She seemed pleased 
at having guessed tlie nature of my occupation, and 
quickly left me, no doubt to make her discovery known to 
all who were interested in the matter. I needed her no 
longer. I had learned enough. 

Fate seemed shaping everything to my hand. I had 
learned that Grant was almost within stone’s throw ; that 
nearly every day he took a solitary walk along tlie coast. 
It was on the coast, far away from fear of interruption, 
that I would arrange for our meeting to take place. All I 
now wished to guard against was a premature discovery of 
my presence. 

The next morning I stepped out and surveyed the scene 
of action. Far, far away as eye could see was the stretch 
of smooth, yellow sand, running from the edge of the 
glorious sea to the tali, rugged cliffs, in a break of which 
the tiny village nestled. 

I climbed the hill, and from the top, looking across the 
valley, could see tlie small farm-house in whicii the object 
of my hatred lived. I dared not go near to it. I turned 
and regained the sea-coast, and walked along under the 
cliff, picturing with savage rapture the moment when, 
utterly unsuspecting of our contiguity, Eustace Grant 
would find himself confronted by me, and called upon to 
reckon up the cost of his foul treachery. 

But that day, and other days, passed without seeing a 
sign of him. I spent nearly all the hours of daylight on 
llie coast. Again and again I went through the scene 
which I had pictured. I stood a few paces from him on 
a stretch of sand. I reproached him, and exulted in the 
vengeance which I was about to take. I could see myself 
raise my right hand and fire. I could see the man fall 
lifeless. Over and over again during those weary hours of 
waiting I acted my part in this drama. 

I glorified in the thought that he was now famous ; that 
life iieid great prizes whicli his hands could grasp. He 
had cut short my dream of joy. I could do even more to 
liim. I could kill him when the ball of success and ambi- 
tion was at his feet. In the first flush of his triumph he 
would find me waiting for him. Olp it >vas well I had been 
tardy in my acts ! I could now takq far more than life 
from my foe ! — 


44 


SUXGS AXD ARIWIVS. 


So day after day I sat or lay on the coast, full of such 
thoughts as these. Except when looking for my foe, I 
spent all my time in my own room. Day after day went 
by, but we met not. I supposed him to be away from 
home. No matter. I could wait a month, a year, ten 
years. Had I not sweet thoughts wherewith to while away 
the time ? I made no more inquiries about liim. I was 
afraid he might hear of them, and guess who wanted him. 
I waited calmly and patiently. 

One morning I stayed later than usual in my room. As I 
glanced through my window, which looked upon the broad- 
est part of the dusty road running through the village, I 
saw that St. Seurin was in such festival guise as it could 
assume. Men, women, and children were standing about, 
dressed in holiday clothes. Then I remembered that the 
girl who waited upon me had said something about to-day 
being a great festival of the Church. I had given little 
heed to her words. I watched the crowd for a few min- 
utes, and presently saw a sight which, had my mood been 
happier, would have delighted me. Girls and boys came, 
bearing tall wicker baskets full of leaves, pulled from vari- 
ous flowers and green shrubs. The sandy space in front 
of me was cleared. A young man ran nimbly from point 
to point, tracing as he went lines in the dust. Then, seiz- 
ing the baskets, one after another, he distributed their 
glowing contents in such a way that in less than twenty 
minutes what looked like a carpet of a variegated pattern, 
formed of flowers, covered the dusty space. 

As he hastily threw the last splash of crimson rose-leaves 
into its place, the procession of priests, acolytes, and chor- 
isters appeared. It paused on the fair carpet, and some 
ceremony, such as blessing, was gone through. Every 
hat was doffed, every knee was bent — all save one. There, 
on the outskirts of the crowd, with head uncovered, in 
deference to others, but standing erect, I saw the tali form 
of Eustace Grant. 

He had returned ! A thrill of delight ran through me 
as 1 gazed on the hated features of the man who had robbed 
me of all I cared for. I drew back into the room, and 
watched him through my window. My time had come ! 

The procession resumed its march. The people followed 
it : most likely to the church. The space v.’as all but de- 
serted. The various hues of the flower carpet were now 
blended together without order or pattern. Grant replaced 
his hat, crossed the road, and struck down a path which 


SLINGS AND A K LOWS. 


45 

could only lead to the sea. I laughed as I saw him disap- 
pear. 

With grim deliberation I threw open the barrels of my 
pistols, and loaded them afresh. No lack of precaution 
on my part should aid the escape of my enemy. Then I 
sat down and waited. I wanted him to have a fair start, 
so that our meeting might take place as far up that de- 
serted coast as possible. 

Wlien I thought I had given him sufficient grace, I sal- 
lied forth in pursuit. I turned down to the sea as he had 
turned. I rounded the foot of the hill wliich sheltered St. 
Seurin from the nor’west winds, and then stood with the 
unbroken cliff on my right hand, and the sand stretching 
away in front of me for miles and miles. In the distance 
I could see him — a white spot on the yellow sand. The 
heat was great, so he had clothed himself in dazzling 
white garments. He was perhaps half a mile in front of 
me, walking near to the edge of the sea. I quickened 
my steps and rapidly diminished the distance between 
us. 

I did not want to get so near that, if he turned, he 
might recognize me. I did not mean to overtake him. I 
meant to follow' him until he turned to retrace his steps ; 
then as soon as he liked he might discover me. My only 
fear was that some path up the cliff might, unknown to me, 
exist — a path which he might take, and so go home across 
the table-land. 

Grant walked leisurely, so I w'as soon within three hun.- 
dred yards of him. I noticed that his head was bent for- 
■ward, as is natural to those who think as they w'alk. His 
hands w^ere behind him, and he paced the coast with a 
slow but lengthy stride. Little he guessed who was upon 
his traces ! 

Suddenly he turned aside, and struck up the beach to- 
ward the cliff. I stood still and w'atched him. I saw him 
reach the top of the beach ; then, as it were, disappear into 
the face of the cliff. I doubled my pace and hurried on, 
laughing in vengeful glee. I had him now ! For by this 
time I knew every foot of that coast line. I knew that at 
the spot where Grant had vanished some convulsion of 
nature had torn the rocks apart ; that entering through 
what looked like a narrow fissure you camevupon a straight, 
smooth space, bounded by unscalable crags, and carpeted 
by soft white sand. Not a cave, because it w'as open to 
the heavens, but all the same a natural cul de sac. 


SL/jVCS and arrows. 


4 & 

I had found this place. I had explored it. I had even 
longed that Eustace Grant might be in there, while I stood 
at the entrance, and held him like a rat in a trap. And 
now the thing I longed for had come to pass. Perhaps to 
escape from the heat of the sun my enemy had chosen the 
one place in which I wished to meet him. 1 was right in 
saying that fate was shaping everything to my hand. Here 
I should face him, force him to fight, and slay him ! I had 
him now ! 

Strange to say, no thought of an issue adverse to myself 
entered my head. So confident, so certain I felt, that I 
paused for a while at the entrance to the trap, and steeled 
my heart by recalling all the wrongs which I had suffered. 
•I stood there until the sun made the barrel of the pistol, 
which I had drawn from my breast, as hot as fire. 

Then I crept between the two rocks, and went to reckon 
up with Eustace Grant ! 

The change from the brilliant sunshine to the cool 
gloom of the grot, or whatever it should be called, was so 
sudden that for a moment I could not distinguish objects. 
When my eyes grew accustomed to the shade, I saw that 
Grant was lying on a heap of sand at the furthest end of 
the ravine. His broad-brimmed hat was by his side, and 
he seemed fast asleep. I crept toward him. My feet made 
no sound as they trod on the soft, diy sand. I stood over 
him and looked down on hts powerful face, strong, sun- 
burned neck, and large, muscular limbs. He looked the 
type of manhood. Ah ! no wonder he could win a woman’s 
love if he strove for it ! 

A note-book lay near his left hand. Most likely he had 
been jotting down something which struck his fancy, 
when the grateful shade and the murmur of the distant sea 
had lulled him to sleep — a sleep from which he would 
awake only to sleep again forever ! Nay, I might have 
placed the muzzle of the pistol next his heart, and have 
sent him without awakening from one sleep to the other. 
But f had no intention of murdering the man in cold 
blood ; nor Avould it have suited me for him to die without 
knowing to whom his death was due. Besides, I meant it 
to be a fair duel — a duel to the death — between us. So I 
stooped, and laid one of my pistols near Ids right hand ; 
then I walked back toward the mouth of the grot, leaned 
against a rock, and waited for him to awake. 

Not for one moment do I attempt to disguise the devil- 
ish, vengeful feelings which could urge me in this calm 


SLINGS- AND ARROIVS. 


4f 


manner to plan and compass this man’s death. Now that 
years have passed since that day, I do not even ask you to 
bear in mind the wrong that had been done me. I simply 
relate what I did, and shall not murmur at the blame 
which I know will be meted out to me. 

The man slept soundly. I waited ; but no thou-ght of 
foregoing my purpose entered into my brain. I waited 
until the dread that we might be disturbed struck me. I 
had gloated over my promised victim long enough. Now 
let me act the crowning act. 

I detached a loose morsel of rock, and tossed it toward 
the sleeping man. It fell on his outstretched hand. He 
started, rose to a sitting posture, rubbed his eyes ; then 
looking round, saw me, and knew why I was there. He 
saw the look of triumph and fell purpose on my face ; he 
sprang to his feet, and took a step toward me. 

I raised my hand and covered him with the pistol. He 
must have looked almost down the muzzle. “ Standstill,” 
I said, “ or I fire ! ” 

The bravest man may well hesitate ere he rushes on cer- 
tain death. Eustace Grant stopped short. My voice, my 
look, must have told him my threat was no idle one. The 
steadiness of my hand told him that I should not miss my 
mark. 

“ You have come to murder me ! ” he said, in a deep 
voice. 

“ No ; to kill you, not murder you. Look on the ground 
behind you ; take the pistol which lies there ; then we are 
equal. Take it, I say, and face me like a man. Fire when 
and how you choose ; I can wait my turn.” 

He turned and saw the pistol, but did not possess him- 
self of it. He faced me steadily, although my weapon was 
still aimed at his broad breast. Deadly as my hate was, I 
was fain to admire his courage. 

“I think you are mad,” he said ; “but listen, I have 
something to say.” 

I stamped my foot ; “ Coward ! villain ! take that pistol, 
or I swear I will shoot you as you stand ! ” 

He stooped and picked up the weapon. A wave of fierce 
delight ran through me. The moment of reckoning was 
at hand. 

Yet he balked me. He held up his hand, and fired both 
barrels in the air. I uttered a cry of rage. 

“You are a man of honor, T suppose ?” he said. “You 
cannot sla}* a defenceless man.” 


SLINGS AND ADROIVS. 

I thrust my left hand into my pocket, and threw a 
handful of cartridges toward him. He should not escape 
me. 

He hurled the pistol from him far over the top of the 
rock. My hope of killing him in fair fight was gone. I 
gritted my teeth, and swore that nevertiieless he sliould 
not escape. “ Coward ! ” I shouted, with my finger trem- 
bling on the trigger. 

He was bold,- for he still stood erect and faced me. His 
face grew pale. No wonder, for death was close at hand. 
He spoke ; his voice was clear and distinct. 

Listen,” he said, “one moment before you stain your 
soul with this crime. Viola, your wife ” 

He said no more. The sound of her name roused in me 
a burst of mad fury; all my enforced calm left me. 
“ Silence, you hound ! ” I shouted. 

Grant must have seen the change in my face, and 
guessed what it presaged. Doubtless life was dear, very 
dear to him. He sprang toward me. My finger pressed 
the trigger, and the report rang out. My hand as I fired 
was steady as a rock, and before I saw the effect of my 
bullet I knew that it had done its work. 

The smoke cleared off. Grant was staggering to and 
fro. His hand was pressed to his right breast, and the red 
blood was creeping through his closed fingers and dyeing 
his pure white coat. Suddenly he fell, and lay like a log 
at my feet. The thing which I had for nights and days 
sighed for had come to pass. 

But not with the effect I had pictured. Instead of the 
exultation which I had promised myself, a tide of utter hor- 
ror swept through me. One, only one, thought filled my 
brain — I had taken this man’s life, and was a murderer. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“tell me the truth.” 

Grant had fallen upon his side. His face. was turned 
from me, and one arm, thrown out as he fell, half hid his 
head. For a moment I stood motionless. Now that the 
deed was done, the horror I felt at my own act rooted me 
to the spot. I felt that I could not meet the man’s dying 
gaze — the reproacliful gaze of one whom I had slain in 


SLINGS AND ARROWS. 


A% 


what was little more than cold blood. Oh, if I could but 
undo my work ! 

But was he dead ? I had aimed straight at his heart — > 
had my bullet reached it ? Let me learn if I was a mur- 
derer in act as well as intention. If so my pistol had a 
second bullet, and my aim, when I turned the muzzle 
toward myself, would be as true as before. 

I dropped the fatal weapon, and ran to the fallen man. 
I knelt beside him, and with the .mechanical calm of de- 
spair, set to work to learn the worst. 

No, thank heaven, he was not dead — not yet ! The blood 
had flown from his sun-tanned face ; his features seemed 
pinched and drawn with pain ; but he still lived. The 
blood was trickling down his white coat, and falling on the 
thirsty white sand which formed his couch ; but he was 
not dead. 

I raised him, thinking that doing so might check the 
flow of blood. I placed that grand, massive head on my 
shoulder. He sighed faintly, and his eyes opened. 

“You have killed me, I think,” he said. “But listen. 
On the oath of a man, who believes he has but a few mo- 
ments to live, I swear that Viola, your wife, is pure as the 
day on which she married you. The truth you may never 
learn ; but believe this.” 

The effort of speaking exhausted him. His eyes closed 
once more, and a cold chill passed over me. I would have 
given all I possessed for a flask of brandy. I shuddered 
at the thought that perhaps those eyes had closed forever. 

My agony was increased tenfold by the words he had 
spoken. I could not, dared not doubt them. If while I 
believed in his guilt, remorse at my crime sprang up and 
seized me, what were my feelings now that I knew I had 
killed a man who had not wronged me ? Those dying 
words had carried complete conviction to my mind. 

I must do something. If only to place my pistol to my 
head, and fall lifeless across my victim, I must do some- 
thing! I took out my knife, and ripped up the wounded 
man’s coat and shirt. I found his handkerchief, which I 
knotted to my own. Then picking up a smooth pebble, I 
enveloped it in a piece of linen torn from the shirt, and 
with these appliances made a rough tourniquet. The very 
pistol with which I had done the deed served to twist the 
bandage until its pressure checked the flow of blood. A 
tinge of color came back to the ashen lips, and for the 
firs't time I hoped that Eustace Grant would not die . 

4 


SLINGS AND ADDOIVS. 


SO 


But I must have assistance. Here we might wait until 
doomsday without a creature coming near us. There was 
but one chance of saving him. I must leave him and fly 
for aid. 

I wonder if man ever ran so fast as I ran along that 
stretch of sand. All the while I was haunted by the dread 
that some movement of the helpless man’s hand would 
shift the rough-and-ready bandage, and that when I saw 
him again I should gaze on death — death for which I was 
accountable. Thoughts like this are spurs which might 
urge the slowest to superhuman speed. 

1 rushed up into the village. I begged the first man I 
saw to get others — to procure a gate, a shutter, a plank, 
anything on which a wounded man could be carried, and 
to start at once up the coast. I tore into the little inn, 
seized a bottle of brandy, ordered the surgeon to be sum- 
moned at once, then ran back as wildly as I had come. 

I outstripped the fisherman, who were already on their 
way with an extemporized ambulance. I reached the 
ravine, and sick at heart entered to learn if Grant were 
still alive. 

Thank heaven, he lived ! He lay just as I had left him. 
Once more I raised his head, and then gave him a tea- 
spoonful of stimulant. He moaned faintly, and the sound 
of pain went through my heart like a knife. 

Presently I heard the fishermen. I called to them. Ten- 
derly as we could we bore Grant through the entrance of 
the ravine and laid him on the stretcher, then at a slow 
pace started on the homeward march. 

About half-way we met the surgeon. He called a halt, 
examined the injured man, and complimented me on the 
way in which I applied the tourniquet. The saving of the 
man’s life, if it could be saved, would be due to my prompt 
action. How little he knew that before attempting to save 
it I had done all in my power to take that life ! 

He gave Grant more stimulant. “ How in the world did 
it happen ?” he asked, turning to me. 

I was stammering out some reply when I saw Grant’s 
eyes open and his lips move as if about to speak. The 
surgeon and I bent over him. 

“Accident,” I heard him say to the surgeon. “Shot 
myself — very stupid.” 

“Hush, don’t talk,” said the surgeon. 

Grant said no more. His eyes met mine for an instant, 
and their look told me that if he died he meant to die with'* 


SL/.VCS AKD ARROWS. 


5 ^ 


out accusing me. My lieart was too full for me to say a 
word. I turned aside to hide my feelings from the rough 
bearers, who once more raised the prostrate form. 

“ Hum ! said the surgeon ; “very strange for a man to 
shoot himself in the right breast. Must be left-handed, I 
suppose." 

The risk of carrying Grant up the hill was too great to 
be incurred, so by my instructions he was borne to tlie inn. 
There, on my own bed, was placed the man whom I had 
witliout one thought of compunction that morning gone 
out to kill. Now, an hour later, I hung over him in 
speechless agony, awaiting the result of the surgeon’s ex- 
amination. 

Briefly it was this : The bullet — my hand after all must 
have swerved — had entered the right breast, crashing 
through the framework of bones, and was now lying em- 
bedded under the shoulder-blade. It could be distinctly 
felt in its resting-place, and by and by could be cut out. 
It was to be hoped that no particles of clothing had been 
carried into the wound. 

But would he live — would he ever be himself again ? 
Undoubtedly, unless unforeseen complications arose. The 
cure would be a tedious affair, but he would be cured. 

As I heard this favorable report I could have thrown 
myself on the surgeon’s neck and wept for joy. If Eustace 
Grant, when he thought himself dying, could forgive me 
and strive to shield me, I felt certain he would forgive me 
when his recovery became an assured fact — forgive, and 
with this solemn asseveration still echoing through my 
mind, I dared to hope, aid me in regaining the woman who 
had left me for some reason which was now veiled in mys- 
tery. But I thrust this dawning hope into the background. 
At present my one task must be to undo or to use every 
human means to avert the dire consequences of my mur- 
derous deed. 

I left the room, saw the innkeeper and his wife, and 
gave such unlimited instructions for every care and com- 
fort procurable that the good people’s eyes brightened. 
No doubt it seemed to them that prosperous days were 
dawning on St. Seurin. I ordered a messenger to be sent 
at once to L’Orient to request the attendance of the best 
surgeon the place boasted. I should have telegraphed to 
Paris for surgical aid, but I feared to waste precious time. 
Then I settled down to nurse my late foe as one nurses a 
brother. I need not give in detail the account of Grant’s 


SL/jVGS AjVD AJ^IWJVS. 


5 =^ 

progress toward recovery. I need not describe the hopes 
and fears which shook me as each day lie seemed a little 
better or a little worse. The anguish I felt when fever set 
in— and he was for a wliile delirious and, as I believed, on 
the point of death — was a punishment I am fain to think 
almost commensurate to my deserts. I watched by liim 
day and night. Such sleep as I took was snatched in a 
bed laid at the foot of his. All the world for me seemed 
to be contained in that sick-room. Even Viola was for the 
time almost driven from my thoughts. Until Grant grew 
well I could think of no one but him. 

Everything he took was from my hands. It seemed to 
me to be part of my atonement that 1 should wait upon 
him like a slave. Had he turned from me in disgust, had 
he by word or gesture shown that the constant presence of 
the man who had done his best to kill him was unsupport- 
able, I think I must have gone mad. 

But he suffered me to nurse him ; nay, more, seemed 
grateful for my aid. Perhaps it was my devotion and 
solicitude for the sufferer which averted the suspicion 
which might well have fallen upon me. I believe the local 
surgeon guessed something of the facts of the case, but he 
was a discreet man and said nothing. The people at the 
inn were too much delighted with the windfall to be curi- 
ous as to how it was brought to their feet. 

As the local surgeon had predicted, the case was a long 
and tedious affair. Four dreary weeks passed, before I, 
for one, could hope that danger was at an end. Then, to 
my indescribable joy, Eustace Grant began to mend rap- 
idly, so rapidly that the little surgeon swelled with pride, 
and plumed himself upon the successful issue brought 
about by his treatment. 

By his own request. Grant was moved to his own house, 
the farm on the hill. 

In a shamefaced way, I begged that I might be allowed 
to accompany him, and continue my duties of sick-nurse. 
In reply he held out his wasted left hand, grasped my own, 
and so settled the matter. 

Scarcely a word had yet passed between us concerning 
the vengeful act of mine which had so nearly proved fatal 
to the man toward whom I now feel as a brother. Once 
or twice I stammered out some prayer for forgiveness. 
He had always checked me by an aclion, as one would 
make who has forgiven, or who has nothing to forgive. 
As all talk likely to agitate him had been forbidden, I was 


SLIjYGS a. yd ARROPl^S. 


53 


obliged to let my expressions of contrition lie in abeyance. 
It was also part of the punishment which I meted out to 
myself that during those weeks Viola’s name never crossed 
my lips. 

Grant, a great, gaunt wreck of his former self, was car- 
ried up to Boulay’s farm. 

The journey did him no harm. The change from the 
sheltered village to the high, breezy table-land was a most 
beneficial one. In a fortnight’s time he could, by leaning 
on my arm, creep about, and every day brought him new 
strength. 

When he grew tired of walking I had a couch wheeled 
out in front of the house. On this, under an awning made 
out of an old sail, he lay for hours, drinking in the fresh 
sea-breeze. One day he turned to me. 

“Julian,” he said — he often used my Christian name 
now — “ I feel so much stronger and better, that I must go 
to work again. Will you be my amanuensis ? ” 

His right arm was still disabled. I think the tears were 
in my eyes as I thanked him for the suggestion. 

He gave a look full of sympathy and forgiveness. Then, 
at his request, I sought for and found a bundle of manu- 
script and writing materials. Still lying on the couch, 
with his eyes half closed, he dictated tome page after page 
of a work which has since appeared, and brought him 
more fame and fortune. 

Except for the reawakened desire, the craving, which 
grew stronger and stronger every hour — to hear tidings of 
Viola, those hours spent with Grant at that lonely farm- 
house on tlie edge of the sea would have been very happy 
ones to me. Leaving out of the question the feeling of 
thankfulness that my murderous design had failed, the very 
charm of the man’s society was such that I could have 
lingered for months at his side. I knew that Eustace 
Grant was making not only a wiser but a better man of 
me. 

But Viola ! I must hear of her ! There is a limit to 
self-restraint ; and Grant was now strong enough to talk 
on all and every subject. Sooner or later, I felt sure that 
he would enter upon my own troubles ; that from him I 
should learn why my wife left me, where I could meet 
with her, how I could best bring her to me again. Is it 
any wonder that I longed for the moment when he might 
speak ? 

It came at last. One night — a night so still and calm 


54 


SLINGS AND ARROIFS. 


that even the proverbially turbulent waves of the Bay of 
Biscay were all but at rest, Grant and I were sitting out in 
the moonlight. He was in a thoughtful, silent mood, and 
for a while I respected the sanctity of his meditation. 
Then, moved by a sudden impulse, 1 began once more to 
express my deep contrition and remorse for my rash act, my 
joy at what I now hoped was my new friend’s all but com- 
plete recovery. 

He checked me quickly. 

“Do you know what thought flashed through me, even 
as I felt the sting of the bullet ? You may believe I had 
no wish to die ; but I said to myself. Were I in that man’s 
place — ignorant as he is of the trutii — I should have done 
as he is doing, or even worse. If it gives you any satisfac- 
tion to hear me say that I forgive you, I say it. Now, let 
us never again mention the subject !” 

He held out his hand, I grasped it in deep gratitude, and 
once more there was silence between us. 

My thoughts flew to my missing love. Oh ! if she were 
but beside me — beside us ! for jealousy of Grant had left 
me. If we were but gazing together on that bright moon ! 
If my arm was but round her, and my lips whispering the 
words of love into her ear ! If her fingers, with the soft, 
caressing touch which I so well remembered, were resting 
on mine ! If 

I could bear it no longer ! I turned to Grant and cried 
in a voice of anguish, 

“ Tell me all ! Tell me where she is ! Give me Viola 
again ! ” 

He turned at my cry. The moonlight was full on his 
pale face. His eyes — his features — evinced deep sympathy 
and compassion. A fearful thought ran through me. 

“ She is not dead ?” I gasped out. 

“ No ; she is not dead.” 

“ Then where is she ? For mercy’s sake tell me ! See ! 
I have been patient — I have not even asked you ! But the 
time has come — I must know ! ” 

I saw him knit his brows, not angrily, but as one in deep 
thought. My lips were trembling ; my emotion so great 
that I could not repeat the question. 

Breathlessly I waited for Grant to speak. At last, in a 
grave voice, he broke silence, 

“ You believe the words I spoke when — when I thought 
I was dying?” 

“ Could I be with you now if I did not believe them ? ” 


SLjA’GS and arrows. 


55 


“ Will you believe me when I say that it will be happier 
for both of you, if you never meet or hear again of one 
another ? ” 

“No ; I will not believe that. How can I ? She, the 
wife I loved, leaves me without one word. With my kiss 
still warm on her lips she passes away from me, it seems 
forever ! Let me see her — let me hear why she did this 
thing ! “ 

Grant was silent ; but once more he took my hand and 
pressed it. 

“ Tell me,” I continued. “ Remember, even after all 
that has recently passed, I am justified in asking you to 
explain your part in the flight. This is at least due to me.” 

“Yes, you are right, it is. All that I will tell you.” 

I clinched my hands and leaned forward, eager to catch 
every word that fell from Grant’s lips. My whole future 
seemed to rest on what I learned during the next few 
minutes. Grant began speaking in a calm and deliberate 
manner. It struck me even then that he was weighing 
every word, so as to be sure of saying no more or no less 
than was needed. 

“Julian,” he said, “in order to understand my action in 
the matter, you must first of all bear in mind the truth 
which you guessed intuitively when first we met. I loved 
Viola with all the strength of my nature. I had loved her 
for years, and I was waiting in the hope that some day she 
would be mine. It was a bitter blow to return home and 
find that another man was about to marry her. It needed 
all my power of will to hide my feelings from her^ do 
what I could to insure her happiness.” 

He sighed, and was silent for a 'while. 

“However,” he continued, “sharp as the pang was at 
the time, it is now a thing of the past. I have conquered , 
myself. My love now for Viola is that of a brother to a* 
dear sister. You will believe this, Loraine?” 

I nodded. He resumed in a lighter manner, 

“ Yes, I have conquered it. I think I now pour all my 
love into my books. But at that time I worshipped lier. 

I would have given my life to save her from grief. Her 
wish was to me a command. Her smallest request an ob- 
ligation to be discharged at all cost. Leaving this out of 
the question, her mother confided her to me. This was 
why I did not tell her I loved her. I forced myself to wait 
until she was twenty-one ; then it was too late.” 

Another pause. I glanced at his face. Its expression 


56 


SL/.VGS AND A ROWS. 


was one of actual pain. If Eustace Grant had conquered 
his hopeless passion the memory of it was still keen. 

“Remember also,” he went on, “I mistrusted you. I 
hesitated long before I made up my mind not to interfere. 
Your romantic suppression of your true name and position 
is accountable for the mistrust I felt. So I start with two 
strong emotions to sway me — love for Viola and mistrust 
of the man who was to marry her. Do you understand?” 

“ Yes ; but for mercy’s sake let me hear what happened ! ” 

“ On Viola’s twenty-first birthday,” he began 

No ; I will not give his story in his own words. I should 
be bound to break it a hundred times by the insertion of 
my ejaculations and expressions of wonderment. When 
ended, it left me as completely in the dark as before. If 
it cleared Viola from the accusation of vulgar infidelity, it 
plunged me in tenfold perplexity as to the motive which 
induced her to fly from me. This briefly is what Grant 
told me : Upon reaching the solicitor’s according to ap- 
pointment, he found that Viola had already arrived, and 
was waiting for him in the room into which I was after- 
ward shown. Grant exchanged a few words with her, 
then went back to Mr. Monk, and spoke about details of 
business. Everything was in order, and ready for my in- 
spection when I should arrive ; so Grant rejoined my wife. 
He had much he wished to say to her, many questions to 
ask, and as he hoped congratulations to offer. 

She appeared strange, absent-minded and oppressed. 
He thought she must be ill. Suddenly, to his bewilder- 
ment, she fell at his feet, and in a passionate way besought 
him to take her away at once. Take her anywhere. Hide 
her from her husband. Let him never know where she 
was ; never see her again. At once — this moment — before 
he arrived, she must go, and leave no trace ! All this 
she prayed Grant to do — besought it absolutely on her 
knees. 

The man’s blood boiled. Here, a fortnight after her 
marriage, was the woman whom he loved begging liim, in 
wild accents, to save her from her husband. Flo could 
jump at only one conclusion. I had in some way mal- 
treated her. I was an utter villain ! My wife had found 
out my true nature, and her only refuge was flight. Was 
it for the man who loved her to urge her to return to what, 
from her wild and despairing prayers, he gathered must 
be absolute misery? No. She besought his aid. Let 
him fling prudence to the wind, and do her bidding with- 


SLJXGS A. YD ARROPVS, 


Sr 


out asking why or wherefore. There was no time to spare 
for questions. Viola seemed in an agony of fear. At any 
moment my step might be iieard. Grant, who believed 
that I had, in the course of a few days, turned my wife’s 
love into hate, felt no inclination to show me any mercy. 
He raised Viola, and promised to save her. He led her 
out through the door which opened to the outer world, 
called a cab, placed my wife in it and drove off, without 
troubling as to direction. Her only wish at the moment 
was to avoid meeting me. 

Once within tlie cab, Grant tried to induce Viola to talk 
rationally ; to give some reasons justifying the rash step. 
His efforts were unavailing. All she would say was, that 
never could she meet me again. She must fly — go far 
away. If Grant would not aid her, she must go alone. 
Finding her so firm, and not doubting but that my con- 
duct had brought all this about, he consented to do as 
she wished. They drove straight to Charing Cross, and 
took the first train to Folkestone. Here he left her for 
the night at a quiet hotel, returned to town, made his 
preparations, and had the encounter, which I have already 
described, with me. The next morning, as my spy in- 
formed me, the fugitives crossed to Boulogne. At this 
point Eustace Grant finished his tale. As I have said, it 
increased my intensity tenfold. Until the moment when 
Grant made what we both thought a dying avowal of his 
innocence, Viola’s flight admitted of a natural, if shame- 
ful, explanation. Now that the elements of faithlessness 
and criminal love were removed, the matter was simply 
inexplicable. Eustace Grant might have thought, might 
even now think, that my ill-treatment of my wife had forced 
her from my side ; but I knew better — she knew better. 

But Grant had not revealed all. “ Go on,” I said ; “tell 
me more.” 

“ I have told you all I can, Julian. I have explained the 
part which, rightly or wrongly, I acted. I promised 
nothing more.” 

“ Tell me where she is, that I may see her and learn all 
from her own lips.” 

“ She is with good friends, who love her. I can say no 
more.” 

“ Is she happy ? Tell me the truth.” 

He hesitated. “I dare not say she is happy,” he an- 
swered ; “ but I believe she is as happy as she can be in 
this world.” 


SLIA'GS AJVD ARROWS. 


5 « 


Tliese unsatisfactory answers were simply maddening. 

“Grant!” I said, fiercely, “for some reason you are 
concealing the truth from me. I cannot force it from you. 
Until I know it, I cannot say whether that reason is right 
or wrong ; but I will work until I find out everything. 
But tell me this: Do you now believe that my wife left me 
on account of wrongs which I did her ? Speak ! ” 

He made a pause. “ I cannot answer that question,” he 
said. “ Doing so would lead to others. I have already 
said too much.” 

“You have answered it ! ” I cried triumphantly. “You 
answered it when you threw that pistol away ; you answer 
it every time you take my hand — every time you speak a 
word of friendship to me.” 

“ So be it,” he said wearily. 

“ And now knowing as you do all, tell me if you approve 
of Viola’s leaving me — me who loved her above the Avorld 
— the husband who worshipped her ; tell me this ! ” 

“ I can say no more. I am weary, worn out. Help me 
to my room.” 

I did so. We parted for the night. As he took my 
hand he looked me straight in the face. “Julian,” he said, 
“ be wise, and ask no more. Leave this place, and forget 
Viola. There is no hope. All this concealment — all that 
has been done — is for your sake. Good-night.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

A FAREWELL. 

I went to my room, and threw myself into a chair. Here 
until dawn I sat puzzling over Grant’s words, and trying 
to turn them into a key which might unlock the secret 
door which stood between my wife and myself. My efforts 
were useless. I seemed like one surrounded by stone 
walls through which there was no escape. Each way I 
turned I was met with some impervious obstacle. 

“ For my sake ! ” This concealment was for my sake ! 
I am plunged into despair. I am told there is no hope. 
Yet all this is for my own sake ! The riddle grew more 
and more difficult of solution. Grant could doubtless 
solve it if he chose, but would he do so ? 


SLIXGS AA’J^OIVS. 


59 


Not he. The next day I once more attacked him. I 
implored, commanded, even threatened ; not one word 
would he speak. I was on the verge of quarreling with 
him ; but as I fancied it was only by his direct or indirect 
aid I could find Viola, I restrained my very natural wrath, 
and on the subject of Viola a sullen silence succeeded my 
useless questions. 

I lingered on at the farm long after Eustace Grant was 
well enough to dispense with my services. Where else could 
I go ? From whom but Grant had I a chance of ascertain- 
ing my wife’s present abode ? I must wait and watch. A 
chance word, a letter, anything, might put me on the 
track. Moreover, I had a presentiment that Viola was not 
far away. People, when driven to their wit’s end, put a 
vast amount of faith in presentiments. 

Much as I had learned to love him, severe as were the 
twinges of remorse still felt for my murderous act, it was 
all I could do to force myself to believe that Grant was 
single-hearted in his determinati(jn of keeping me in the 
dark respecting my wife. The more so, as it was my con- 
viction that could 1 once meet her my pleading would be 
eloquent enough to bring her back to me, to begin once 
more the happy life so strangely cut short. Only let me 
see her once more, take her by the hand, gaze into her 
eyes, call up the memory of those few short days when we 
were all the world to each other ; surely I must then be 
told the truth, and conquer. 

One morning Eustace seemed distracted and ill at ease. 
He answered my questions absently. Presently he said, 

Do you mind making a short journey for me ?’ 

“ Certainly not. Where to ? ” 

“ I want several things not procurable here. Will you 
go to L’Orient for me ? ” 

“ Of course I will. But how am I to get there ? The 
diligence does not run to-day.” 

“ Jean could drive you in the light wagon, but that would 
be tedious. I will try and borrow a horse.” 

I favored the horse. Twenty miles in old Boulay’s wagon 
was not a tempting prospect. So the horse was procured, 
and I decided to stay at L’Orient for the night, and ride 
back the next day. My purchases could be sent by dili- 
gence. 

Grant gave me a list of the articles he wished bought. 
Some of them, it struck me, seemed superfluous and trivial, 
and all might have been ordered by letter. Then I mounted 


6o 


SL/.VGS AjVD A/^J^OIVS. 


and rode along the table-land, down the hill, through the 
sleepy little village, up the other hill and away on the 
dusty road to L’Orient. 

It was a blazing hot day, so hot that I blamed myself 
for not having started on my ride either early in the morn- 
ing or later on, when the power of the sun began to wane. 
I wondered that Grant had not suggested the latter course. 

That wonder came coupled with another thought, a 
thought which made my heart beat. I remembered how 
anxious he had been that I should make the journey to- 
day, and contrasted that anxiety with the importance of 
the errand. Could it be that he was for some purpose 
sending me out of the way ? I rode slowly on, giving 
this question full consideration ; and the more I considered 
it the more I became convinced that my errand to L’Orient 
was a ruse. Having determined this, my mind was at 
once made up. I halted at the next farm-house, and stat- 
ing that the horse was lame, left him in charge of the good 
people until I could send for him. Then rapidly I retraced 
my steps, until I reached the top of the cliff from which 
once before I liad gazed at the house which iield the man 
on whom I had come to wreak vengeance. I threw myself 
on the turf, and for hours kept my eyes on the house or 
on the road which led to it. 

If I saw nothing to confirm my suspicions, I could re- 
gain my horse and ride to L’Orient after nightfall. There 
would be a moon, and I could no doubt find my way. 

So with eager eyes I watched and watched, until at last 
I saw, struggling up the hill opposite to me, a carriage, 
which must have passed through St. Seurin. I saw it ap- 
pear and disappear, according to the bends of the road ; 
then emerge on to the table-land, and finally stop in front 
of the farm-house. My heart leaped with delight. 

I saw Grant come out and assist some dark figures to 
alight. I saw them enter the house. I saw the carriage 
and horses taken to the stables at the back of the farm. 
Then I rose and went to meet what fate had in store for 
me. 

I descended the one hill, climbed the other, and walked 
briskly toward the farm. I felt sure that the carriage seen 
by me had brought Viola to my temporary liome. Grant 
knew that she was coming, hence the errand on which I 
had been sent. I chafed at the thought of how nearly I 
had fallen into the trap. 

About a hundred yards from the house, I saw on my 


SLINTrS AND ARROIVS, 


6i 


left hand, seated on a large stone on the edge of the cliff, 
the form of a woman. My heart beat so violently that for 
a moment I was forced to stand still. 

Changed as was her dress, unfamiliar her attitude, I 
should liave known her among a thousand. At last, after 
an interval of two years, I saw Viola! She was clothed 
in black — she, who formerly detested the sombre hue ! 
She was sitting with her hands clasped round her knee ; 
her head bent forward, in a sad, tlioughtful attitude. She 
seemed to be gazing at the sea below, yet seeing or hear- 
ing nothing. Noiselessly I crept ever the soft turf until 
I was close to her. 

Now that the moment for which I had longed had come, 
what should I do ? Cover her with reproaches ? Coldly 
demand an explanation? Insist upon her returning at 
once to her duty ? 

No ; none of these. My only thought was to throw my- 
self at her feet, to clasp her in my arms, to cover her face 
with kisses, to swear that notwithstanding all the past I 
loved her as of old. In another second I should have done 
all this. 

But suddenly she turned her head and saw me. She 
started to her feet, and with a low cry which told of pain, 
even horror, turned and fled toward the house. 

I followed, overtook her, and seized her hands. Viola ! 
my love t my wife ! ” I cried, why do you fly from me ?’' 

She made no reply, but struggled to free herself. 

“Speak! look at me, dearest ! ” I pleaded- “Tell me 
all — I can forgive ! Tell me nothing save that you love 
me ! ” 

She looked at me ; her eyes were full of fear, “ Let me 
go,” she said hoarsely, “ or I shall die ! ” 

“Never!” I said, “ until you have told me all What 
does it mean ? What am I to think ?” 

She laughed wildly. “Think? Think that I am false 
to you — that I love another — that I hate you ! But let me 
go. Julian, let me go ! ” 

Her voice sank to piteous entreaty as-she spoke the last 
words. 

“Never!” I repeated. I wound my arms round her, 
and kissed her passionately. She trembled in every fibre 
of her body ; and when once more her eyes met mine, the 
look in them positively frightened me. 

Suddenlv, by a supreme effort, she tore herself from my 
arms and fled rapidly toward the farm. -I was on the point 


63 


SLIjVGS ANLr A/^ROWS. 


of pursuing her, when a great revulsion of feeling came to 
me. What had I done that this woman should shrink from 
my touch — should regard me with dread and horror ? I 
had lavished love upon her ; I was willing to take her to 
my arms without a word of explanation, or an entreaty 
for pardon for the misery she had caused me. Yet 
she fled from me as if I were some noxious reptile. 
However deeply and blindly a man may love, there must 
be a limit to his self-abasement ; so, as I strode into the 
house, to find, not her, but Eustace Grant, my heart was 
full of black and bitter thousfhts as:ainst the woman I 
loved. 

I entered Grant’s sitting-room, Avithout either knock or 
warning of any sort. He was seated, and apparently in 
earnest conversation with a pale, sweet-faced woman, some 
ten years his senior, and who was dressed as a Sister of 
Charity. He started to his feet and looked at me like one 
astonished. 

“You here, Loraine !” he cried. 

“Yes ; I did not get as far as L’Orient.” 

Grant moved toward the door. “ Excuse me,” he said ; 
“I shall be back in a moment. This is my sister.” The 
lady bowed and smiled pleasantly. 

“You are too late. Grant,” I said, somewhat coldly. 
“You cannot prevent the meeting; it has taken place.” 

“ Poor girl ! ” he said. Then, turning to his sister, speak- 
ing in French, “You had better go and find Viola.” 

She rose and left the room. Grant and I were alone. 

“Well!” he said calmly. “You have seen her?” 

“Yes, in spite of your subterfuge.” 

“ I acted but for the best. It was only this morning I 
knew they were coming. Some absurd report of my re- 
cent illness had reached my sister. Not having heard 
from me for weeks and weeks, she came to learn the 
truth.” 

“ Came from where ? ” 

“ From Nantes. She is the superior of a Sisterhood 
there. She is my half-sister. Her mother was a French- 
woman. 

“ But, Viola ? Why is Viola with her ?” 

“She has been in her charge ever since she left you. 
It was to my sister I took her?’ 

^ A thought crossed me. “ Surely,” I said, “Viola, a mar- 
ried woman, can bind herself by no vows ? She is not 
one of the Sisterhood ? ” 


SLnVGS AND ARROWS. 


63 


The Sisterhood is a purely charitable one. Persons 
can leave it at discretion. Viola has been ray sister’s 
guest — that is all.” 

“Grant,” I said, “ Para now under the same roof as my 
wife. She shall not leave it until I know everything. 
From lier lips I will learn the meaning of her conduct. 
Go and send her to me.” 

He said nothing. He left the room, and in a few min- 
utes returned, leading my wife. She sank wearily upon a 
chair, witli her fingers nervously moving one against the 
other. I had now time to notice what changes the two 
years had made in her. Beautiful as she still was, it was 
not the girlish beauty which had won my heart ; it was the 
sad, sweet beauty of a young woman who has suffered. 
Youth was still there, but the gayety and exuberance of 
youth were missing. Viola’s cheek was paler than of old ; 
her figure looked slighter; altogether she was more 
ethereal, more fragile-looking. For a while she kept her 
eyes away from me ; then finding I did not speak, she 
/ooked at me. Her eyes were full of tears. 

“ Eustace tells me you want to speak to me,” she said. 
“Will you not spare me, Julian ? I am very unhappy ! ” 

“Unhappy! Spare you! How have you spared me? 
Think what my life has been from the day you left me — 
think of it, and pity me ! ” 

She pressed her hands to her brows, and I heard her 
sobbing. I could not bear to witness her grief. I knelt 
at her side. 

“Viola,” I whispered, “tell me all. Let me know what 
black cloud lies between us. Tell me why you left me ?” 

“ I cannot ! I cannot ! ” she wailed. 

Heedless of Grant, who was still with us, I besought 
her, I implored her to enlighten me, or at least to say that 
she loved me still that now we had met we should part 
no more. In vain ! Again and again her lips formed the 
sad yet firm refusal. At last she said, “Ask me no more, 
Julian ; it is for your sake that I am silent.” 

For mv sake ! Grant’s parrot-cry ! I rose in bitter anger, 
and turned to Grant. 

“Tell her,” I said — “tell this woman, who bears my 
name, and who is still my wife, that nothing can make 
life more terrible to me than this concealment. Tell her 
in what frame of mind I met you. Bid her speak. You 
have power over her. She will listen to you, if not to 
me.” 


64 


SLiyGS AND ARKOIVS. 


“ Viola,” said Grant, in a strangely solemn voice, he is 
right ; we are wrong. He must know the truth.” 

She raised her white face. “ Never — never ! ” she 

moaned. 

“ It must be,” continued Grant. “ He is a man ; and if 
there is a burden to be borne, he has a right to bear it. 
He must know all.” 

She stretched out her arms imploringly. “ Eustace,” 
she gasped, “ think of the horror ! Let him hate me, 
curse me, go away and forget me ! ” 

“ He must be told,” said Grant, firmly. 

She pressed her hands to her eyes, and was silent for 
some minutes. I steeled my heart, and neither spoke 
nor moved, although I saw the tears trickling through 
her closed fingers. 

Presently she spoke, “ Not until I have gone, Eustace ; 
not until tlie ship has sailed.” 

“Sailed ! What ship ?” I exclaimed, turning to Grant. 

“ Viola sails for America next week. Some friends of 
her mother’s live in New York ; she goes to them.” 

I walked across to Viola. “Why do you go ? ” I asked 
fiercely. She seemed to tremble at the change in my 
voice. I repeated the question. 

“ I am too near — ^too near to England,” she said, in a 
low, pained voice. 

“ Too near to me, you mean ? ” 

“Yes! There must be thousands of miles between 
us.” 

I stamped in my rage. I was tried past endurance. 
Her one thought— her only wish seemed to be that of 
avoiding me. 

“ Go ! ” I cried, “ and may I never gaze again on — 
your false fair face 1 Go 1 and carry with you the mem- 
ory of the life you have ruined, the hopes you have 
blighted, tlie love you have thrown away 1 Go 1 ” 

I turned on my heel, but in the small mirror over the 
fireplace I saw Viola rise, pale and tottering. 1 saw Grant 
place his arm round her and support her. 

“ I cannot bear it,” I heard her say. “ I can bear all, for 
his sake, except his reproaches. Eustace, when I am gone 
let him know all. Not until I am gone. Julian, fare- 
well I ” 

I turned at the last words. Viola was passing through 
the doorway. I sprang forward, but Grant checked me. 
The tears were rolling down his cheeks. 


SL/jVGS and arrows. 




*‘No,” he said. “Leave her. No good can be done. 
You will kill her if you see her again. Julian, leave the 
house for an hour ; they will be gone by then. Trust me — 
believ’e me, it is better so.” 

“ But I am to be told everything ? ” 

“Yes, when she has left England.” 

“No, now! Tell me now! Whatever it may be that 
divides us, I can sweep it away. I can hinder her from 
going. I can hold her to my heart and keep her. Speak ! 
11 you are sworn to keep her secret awhile, for my sake, 
for her sake, break that vow, and let me know everything 
this moment ! ” 

He laid his hand on my shoulder. “ Julian, my poor 
fellow,” he said in a voice full of feeling, “ if you have any 
hope, abandon it. No love, no power on earth can bring 
Viola back to you ! ” 

His words seemed to turn my heart into lead. I said no 
more, but obeying his request left the house. But I 
waited at the roadside for the carriage to pass ; I would 
catch one more glimpse of Viola before she left me, as 
Grant predicted, forever. 

At last the carriage passed me. Violasawme ; our eyes 
met. Her look was one of hopeless, yearning misery. She 
made a faint movement as if about to stretch out her 
arms, then in a moment passed from my gaze. And this 
was our farewell ! 

Conquering the impulse which urged me to rush after 
the carriage, tear my wife from it, and swear she should 
not leave me, I turned away and struck down toward the 
coast. 

Here I wandered about until late at night. Then, 
weary and miserable, I dragged myself back to the farm. 

Grant, with a face full of anxiety, was awaiting my re- 
turn. I threw myself into a chair, buried my face in my 
hands, and I believe sobbed. The disappointments of. 
the day, the threatened hopelessness of the future, had 
completely broken me down. 

I felt as a man must feel who is on the verge of suicide. 

“ Eustt^ce,” I cried, “can you give me no hope?” 

“ My poor boy, it would be cruel to deceive you — 
none ! ” 

I groaned. “Let us go away,” I said. “Come with me 
to England — to London. I shall go mad, and throw my- 
self over the cliff, if I stay here ! ” 

The next morning we started for England 

5 


SLINGS AND ARSOIVS, 




CHAPTER X. 

“it has been a dream: let us forget it." 

Curious as it may seem, I pressed Grant no more to make 
a premature revelation of the mystery. His warning' words, 
his solemn assertion that I had nothing to hope for, when 
joined to the remembrance of Viola’s grief and persistency 
in seeking to avoid me, had exercised a great effect upon 
me ; so great that I began to dread the promised disclos- 
ure. Until it was made, I could at least tell myself that 
some day matters would come right. The look 1 had seen 
the last in Viola’s eyes haunted me day and night. The 
last words I had heard her speak, “Julian, farewell ! ’’ rang 
in my ears. Both look and words told me that she loved 
me, but told me that hopeless miser}’’ was to be our lot. 
No wonder I began to wish to postpone the knowledge of 
the worst ! 

We went to an hotel in London. I was moody and mis- 
erable — a cheerless companion to the man to whom I now 
clung as for support and strength. Somehow, Eustace Grant 
seemed to be the only creature to whom I could turn in my 
trouble for sympathy and aid. He was very good to me in 
those days. He was more than a friend, more than a broth- 
er. But in. spite of the compassion which I knew he 
felt for me, no word which encouraged the faintest hope 
passed his lips. Sympathy is precious, but I wanted hope. 

The days went by until I guessed that Viola’s departure 
must be near at hand. I grew nervous and sleepless. 
Wild thoughts of flying back to France and seeing her 
once more shot through me. To see her, touch even her 
hand once more, before I learned the fatal secret which I 
had by now brought myself to believe would part us for- 
ever. 

“When does she sail?" I asked Grant abruptly one 
night. 

“ The day after to-morrow." 

“ From where ? " 

“ From Flavre." 

In forty-eight hours she would be gone. In forty-eight 
hours I should know why she had left me. 

“ Eustace," I said, “before I learn what there is to learn, 
there is something I should like to do. Viola is my wife. 


SLINGS AND ARROIVS. 67 

Whether she has acted rightly or wrongly, I shall soon 
know ; but I must make some provision for her future.” 

“ Yes,” said Grant. “ That vou should most certainly 
do.” 

“ Come with me to my solicitor’s to-morrow. I will give 
him instructions. 

Grant nodded ; so I wrote at once and made the ap- 
pointment. 

I resolved to do all that I purposed doing before Viola 
left. By this act I could at least show her that, whatever 
the pending revelation might be, I loved and trusted her. 
I told Grant of my intentions, and wondered he expressed 
so little surprise at what, under the circumstances, might 
be well called generous, if not quixotic. 

“ It will be just and fair,” he said quietly. “Do it, as 
you suggest, at once.” 

The next afternoon found us at my solicitor’s. The 
large tin box, labelled “ Julian Loraine, Esq.,” was pulled 
down, dusted and opened. The notes which, two years 
ago, had been taken respecting the settlement were looked 
up and produced. It was arranged that Grant slioiild be 
one trustee, and my solicitor, in whom I put great faith, the 
other. All was to be done with as little delay as possible. 
I smiled sadly, perhaps bitterly, as I thought it was to be 
done for the sake of one who was eager to put thousands 
of miles between us. 

I was looking through some papers, among which I 
found one indorsed “ Copy of Julian Loraine’s will.” I 
drew it out, opened it, and held it toward Grant. “ See,” 
I said, “ there is my title to all I possess. What a differ- 
ence those few lines made to me at the time ! Now little 
good after all they have done me ! ” 

“Sliortest will I ever read, Mr. Grant,” said the solicitor. 
“ If everyone made so simple a will as that lawyers would 
starve.” 

Grant without much show of interest, took the paper in 
his hand and ran his eye over it. Suddenly he stopped 
short and stared at it like one who sees a ghost. Never 
before had I seen a man’s face and bearing so changed in 
a single second. I was positively frightened. 

“ VVhat is the matter ? ” I cried. 

Tie turned to the solicitor. “Will you leave us alone 
for one minute ? ” he said, “ only one minute ? ” 

The solicitor looked surprised at the brusque request ; 
but nevertheless courteously vacated the office. 


68 


SLIN'GS AA'D A/^/^OWS. 


Grant seized my arm with a grip of iron. 

“ What does it mean — this ?” he asked, in a voice full of 
wild excitement. As he spoke he laid his forefinger on 
the words “adopted son ! ” 

“ Mean ! It is English. It means what it says.” 

“You are not that man’s son !” 

“No more than you are. I have always passed as such, 
and never troubled to correct the error. Perhaps as my 
origin is a humble one, I was ashamed to do so,” I added 
with a faint laugh. 

He took no notice of my self-deprecation. 

“ Tell me all about yourself — as short as possible, but 
pass over nothing.” 

So in a few words I told him the story which years ago 
Julian Loraine had told me. 

How I was born in mid-ocean, and in a curious way 
established some sort of a claim on Mr. Loraine. My tale 
was but half finished when Grant left me, and I heard him 
in tlie outer office shouting for telegraphic forms in a way 
which scandalized the decorous clerks. He wrote two 
messages rapidly, threw down a sovereign, and asked for 
some one to go at once to the telegraph office. Then he 
seized me by the arm. 

“Come!” he cried; “all that trash” — meaning the 
business papers — “can wait. Come with me.” 

He swept me out of the office like a whirlwind, down 
the stairs, into the street. 

He shouted for a cab, and in a moment we were tearing 
at full speed tow'ard our hotel. Had I not guessed that 
something deeper, something concerning my own fate, lay 
under his excitement, I should have thought Eustace 
Grant had suddenly gone mad. No ; I knew that he had 
made some discovery which wrought a great change in 
everything. 

“What is it ? Tell me ! ” I said. 

“ I cannot. I cannot speak. Wait one minute.” 

“Tell me that it means good to Viola and to me.” 

He grasped my hand. “Julian,” he said, “it means 
everything.” 

I sank back speechless. For a minute or two I was 
willing to rest content with this bold assertion, and ask no 
more questions. I said no more until we reached the 
hotel. 

Grant carelessly threw money to the cabman, passed his 
arm through mine and led me to our sitting-room at a rate 


SLIxVGS AjVD ARI^OIVS. 


% 

which made us the observed of all. Once there he grasped 
both my hands and shook them vigorously. Then he left 
me. 

In a minute he was back again. He held two letters in 
his hand. He gave me one. 

“ She wrote this,” he said ; “ it is a farewell, and was to 
have been given to you when you had learned all.” 

I snatched it and would have opened it. 

“ Stop a moment,” he said. “ This one is a letter which 
on her death-bed Viola’s mother told me to give her 
daughter on her twenty-first birthday. Your wife read it 
in Mr. Monk’s office while she was waiting for you, and 
while I was talking to Mr. Monk. When you read it pict- 
ure her feelings, and you will understand everything.” 

Grant turned away and left me alone with the letters. 

Which should I open first ? Viola’s, of course. Sad 
though it might be it would contain some word of love 
which would be precious to me. I kissed it and tore it 
open. Here it is : 

‘‘Dearest: You will read this knowing all. Had we 
not met — had you even believed me faithless to you, I 
could have carried the dreadful secret to the grave, and 
you at least might one day have found yourself happy 
again. You have forced the truth from me, and the truth 
shows you that this letter is an eternal farewell. At times I 
thought when years and years have passed we might meet 
again. Dearest it can never be. Even that hope is denied 
us. Julian, fate has been cruel, and seems even crueller 
now that you must share the sorrow and the shame. Fare- 
well.” 

I laid the letter on the table, and opened the second 
packet. Another letter in woman’s writing ; also two long 
narrow strips of paper. I read the letter. 

“My Daughter: If I am dead this will be given you 
on your twenty-first birthday. The name under which I 
pass is not my own. I am the wife — you are the daughter 
— of Julian Loraine of Herstel Abbey, Somersetshire. How 
he treated me, why I left him, are matters upon which I 
need not speak. He was a fiend in human shape. I shall 
never see him again. He does not know whether I am 
alive or dead. I tell you this, not that you may seek him 
and claim the rights of a daugh.tcr, but that you may sh.un 


70 


S LIANGS AND ARROIVS. 


and avoid any one bearing his wicked name. He is rich, 
but riches do not bring happiness. Live your own sweet 
life, marry a good honest man, and let your true name, or 
the relationship you bear to the man who so cruelly 
wronged me, never pass your lips. If ever you feel tempted 
to go to this man and say, ‘ I am your daughter,’ tiiink of 
me and the years of suffering he has caused me. Let him 
die without knowing he has a child so fair and loving as 
yourself. 

“Your affectionate mother, 

“ Margaret Loraine.” 

The slips of paper were certificates — one of the marriage 
of Julian Loraine and Margaret, the other of the birth of 
Viola. 

Now I knew all — I rested still and pictured my poor 
girl’s unspeakable horror when she read that fatal letter, 
and learned that her husband was her father’s son by what 
she supposed was a former wife. I seemed to see her 
struck down in the first flush of her wedded happiness, 
even as I had been struck down. I seemed to enter into 
her thoughts, to feel tiiat it was impossible she could meet 
me again. I could hear her agonized entreaties to Grant 
to bear her away and hide her from me. I could under- 
stand now why she took no steps to clear lier name in my 
eyes. How she even wished me to think her perjured and 
faithless so long as the secret could be kept from me — so 
long as I did not suffer as slie suffered. Yes! I could un- 
derstand what, rightly or wrongly, she and Grant had 
striven to do for my sake ! 

On what a chance a life turns 1 Why had I never told 
Viola the story of my birth and strange adoption ? Why 
had I never told Grant? It would have cleared matters 
in a second. 

Strange to say, it had never occurred to me to mention 
it to either of them. After I had succeeded to my reputed 
father’s wealth, my position was so assured — it seemed to 
me so natural to be thought and called the dead man’s 
son — that in sober truth iny real origin had all but faded 
from my mind. For years I had scarcely given it a 
thought. But I ground my teeth now, as I reflected how 
a simple chance might have made me speak, and so saved 
my wife and myself from more than two years of misery ! 

Then the idea came to me that every moment which 
elapsed before Viola learned tlie news was one of sorrow 


SLINGS AND ARIWJVS. 


to her. I sprang to my feet, and went in search of 
Grant. 

Good fellow ! I found he had already packed his port- 
manteau, and was busily engaged on miiic. 

“ If you make haste, we shall just catch the Southamp- 
ton train,” he said. 

I thanked him by a look. I tossed things into my port- 
manteau higgledy-piggledy, and in three minutes we were 
on our way back to France. 

We were in plenty of time. Indeed, as the boat did not 
leave Southampton until nearly midnight, we might have 
waited for a later train. It was better as it was. Although 
starting from London at once meant pacing for hours the 
quay at Southampton, I had the satisfaction of being so 
many miles nearer to Viola. 

Shall I ever forget that crossing ! The night was fair. 
No thought of sleep came to me. I sat on deck all night, 
gazing out over the sea : looking out for the two great liglits 
on Cap de la Heve ; listening to tlie steady, monotonous 
thump, thump, thump of the engines, and knowing that 
every revolution of the paddle-wheels was bearing me 
nearer to Viola ; or I leaned over the side of the boat, and 
watched the hissing water flying behind in a foaming wdiite 
track. I felt that I was being borne away from all my 
troubles, and that the path the. sturdy ship ploughed through 
the moonliglited sea was one which led me to unspeakable 
happiness. I was alone with my thoughts nearly all the 
time. Grant, like a wise man, had gone below to court 
sleep. Perhaps, in spite of the joy he felt in the approach- 
ing happiness of his friends, my ceaseless and oft-repeated 
questions became a trifle monotonous. He had to assure 
me a thousand times that one, at least, of his messages 
would reach Viola in time to stay her departure. He had 
telegraphed to the steamer, as well as to the Hotel do 
TEurope, at which he knew she was staying. He had 
simply said, “On no account go to-morrow,” and felt cer- 
tain she would countermand her journey, and await ex- 
planations. 

Would she ? Would a few words from him cliange her 
plans ? What should I do if we reached Havre after the 
American steamer had sailed, and found that after all 
Viola had gone in her ? 

“ Do ? ” said Grant. “ Take the next boat and follow 
her. It will be but the delay of a week, and the voyage 
will do you good.” 


SL/A^CS AXD A k ROWS, 


■72 


But I could not contemplate with equanimity the thought 
of Viola’s spending another week in ignorance of the truth. 
So Grant had again and again to assure me tliat we should 
certainly find her at Havre with his sister, who accompa- 
nied her thither and had promised to see her safely on 
board the steamer. 

I had other questions to ask him : among them, when he 
first learned the true reason of my wife’s sudden flight — how 
he learned it. He was silent for a Avhile, then he said 
gravely, 

“ Lorainc, I will once for all make a clean breast to you. 
A month after I had placed Viola in my sister’s hands I 
said to myself, ‘ This man, who should have made her life 
happy, has by his treatment forced her to leave him. Why 
should she waste her life in grief? I love her!’ Sol 
wrote to her — I could not have spoken the words — I wrote 
and told her I loved her. I asked her what the voice of 
the world mattered to us. The law might free her from 
you, and we might be happy ! Her answer was to send me 
back my letter, accompanied by the papers which I gave 
you to-day. She knew that I would guard the secret. I 
knew that she left you not because her love had waned. 
The hate I felt toward you, the passion I felt toward Viola, 
turned into the deepest pity. Now you know all.” 

It was just after saying this that Grant bade me good- 
night and left me to my own reflections. So I watched 
and watched until morning dawned, then broke broad and 
bright ; until the sun was well up ; until at last we steamed 
into Havre, and I could step on th.e broad quay and tell 
myself that in a few minutes my wife would be weeping in 
my arms. 

We reached the hotel. We learned that the ladies were 
still there. Grant’s telegram had done its work. My im- 
pulse was to rush in search of my wife, but Grant checked 
me. As lie said, she knew nothing ; his message had given 
no information as to the discovery he had made. Let him 
see her first, and convince her that I was, without a shadow 
of a doubt, Julian Loraine’s adopted son. Then I might 
see her as soon as I liked. 

I consented and curbed my impatience. I sat in the 
courtyard of the hotel counting the minutes. Grant must 
have told her by now. Slie must know what joy is await- 
ing us. She must be longing to throw herself into my 
arms. Why am I not summoned ? Perhaps the joy has 
killed her! I will wait no longer! 


SLmCS AND ARDOIVS. 


73 


I rose, but at that moment Grant appeared. His face 
told me that the good tidings had worked no evil. I ran 
toward him. He grasped my hand. 

“ Stay yet a few minutes,” he said ; “ she wishes it.” 

She is well ? There is nothing wrong ? ” 

“ She is well and happy. In ' ten minutes you shall see 
her.” 

Somewhat sullenly I reseated myself. Presently we were 
joined by the sweet-faced Sister of Charity, who had for 
the time discarded the spotless linen insignia of her calling, 
and was dressed in simple black. She talked on various 
subjects ; but if I answered at all I did so mechanically, 
her voice bearing no meaning to my ears. At last she rose, 
and I understood that she wished me to follow her. Grant 
wrung my hand as I passed him. 

With a beating heart I followed his sister up the wide 
stairs, followed lier until she paused before the door and 
placed her hand on the handle. Then turning to me she 
whispered, 

“ Mr. Loraine, I know all the sad story of the last two 
years. I know what this poor child has suffered. There 
are some griefs which are too acute to bear even the men- 
tion of. Take her to your arms as if you had parted with 
her but an hour ago, and until she speaks of it let no word 
of the last two years pass betw'een you.” 

She made the sign of the cross, opened the door and 
left me free to enter. 

What did I see ? Viola, even as she left that morning so 
soon after our wedding. Viola in the very dress she wore 
that day. How well 1 remembered it — remembered its 
hue, its very material. Long afterward she told me that 
during those months of separation she had treasured up 
and kept always near her everything that reminded her 
of the few happy days she had spent with me before the 
fatal mistake crushed her to the earth. Yes, I saw Viola 
as of old — even down to the sparkling ring which I had, 
it almost seemed to me that morning, given her. Viola, 
my love, my wife ! 

The door closed softly behind me — the Sister’s care 
must have done this. I opened my arms. With a cry 
of rapturous delight Viola ran toward me, and in a rno; 
ment was sobbing and laugiiing on my breast. 

“ Dearest,” she whispered, when at lak we foun^ speed] 
for more than ejaculations and broken words of love, 
“dearest, it has been a dream — a blac^, ptaiei dream \ ” 


74 


SLINGS AND AKDOIVS. 


She shuddered as she spoke. Once more I pressed my 
lips to hers. 

“ Let us forget it,” I said. 

Then, hand in hand, out of that long night of dark 
dreams we passed into the full daylight of the joy which 
life can only know when brightened by such love as 
ours 1 


MISS RIVERS’S REVENGE. 


CHAPTER I. 

It will simplify matters if I say at once that I am a 
strange girl. After this confession, you will be more in- 
clined to believe that my story is a true one, and, it may 
be, condemn my conduct less. If your godfathers and 
godmothers think fit to give you a strange name, they can 
scarcely expect you to be exactly the same as other people ; 
and the name some one chose to christen me by is a strange 
one. “ Heritage ” is certainlv not in common use, although 
when one gets accustomed to it, it sounds soft and rather 
pretty, especially so when coupled with my surname. 
“ Heritage Rivers” is not at all bad. 

I am quite sure that in most instances people’s natures 
accommodate themselves to their names. Nearly all the 
Lucys I have known have been fair and romantic, nearly 
all the Janes and Susans homely and fond of housekeep- 
ing. A girl’s career seems often to be settled by her 
name. So having no precedent to show me what the 
owner of the name of Heritage should be like, I always 
plead it as an excuse for any peculiarities of disposition. 
Nevertheless, I am not called upon to dissect my mental 
qualities for the benefit of the inquisitive, so shall only 
say that one of my chief characteristics is that of being a 
good hater. I like and respect a good hater. No doubt 
it is unchristianlike ; but it is so natural. I am not 
ashamed to say that if people injure me I don’t forget or 
forgive until I feel I am about even with them. Of 
course if any one who had wronged me asked forgive- 
ness I should forgive freely enough — I don't see how that 
can be avoided — but I should never be eager to do my 
enemy a good turn unless I felt quite sure of heaping coals 
of fire upon his head ! Now you know what manner of 
being lam; and very dreadful the description looks as I 


76 


MISS RIVERS'S R EVE JVC E. 


write it, so dreadful that I am obliged to comfort myself 
by thinking of the reverse of the picture — that I can be as 
true a friend as an enemy. 

It is not so many years ago that I, Heritage Rivers, a 
slim girl of seventeen, left school, and stepped out into the 
grown-up world to meet what fate awaited me. For the 
time my only idea was to enjoy my- freedom. It was. de- 
lightful to think that masters and mistresses were frnjshed 
and done with forever and a day. So I bade them a glad 
adieu, and went down into the country to stay with an 
aunt of mine, and for several weeks revelled in sunshine 
and liberty. Then, in accordance with a solemn promise, 
I spent some little time with an old school-friend — one, 
like myself, just emancipated. Her people lived at Twick- 
enham, in a delicious old house with a large garden. I 
was made heartily welcome. The mother took me to her 
heart as her daughter’s dearest friend. The father, a 
courtly, gray-haired man, with literary tastes and pursuits, 
was kindness and politeness itself ; while Clara Ramsay’s 
brothers were in an hour my devoted slaves and lovers. 
Surrounded by such pleasant attentions, I began to realize 
the fact that I was now a grown-up young lady, not alto- 
gether unattractive, and so valued myself accordingly. 

As the Ramsays were quiet people and kept little com- 
pany, an announcement made by Mrs. Ramsay that a 
dinner-party was projected was sufficient to flutter our 
hearts. For several days before it took place, we dis- 
cussed again and again the merits of the guests who were 
to be present. As Clara knew them all bxcept one, her 
interest was centered on the probable appearance of this 
gentleman. As even her mamma did not know him, all 
information respecting him must be extracted from Mr. 
Ramsay, whose friend he was. Girls being inquisitive 
creatures, Clara, at breakfast-time, egged on by me, began 
her inquiries. 

“Who is Mr. Vincent Hope, papa?” 

“ A friend of mine, my dear. A very clever young man, 
who will one day, I think, be a most distinguished member 
of society.” 

So far as it went this reply was satisfactory ; but we 
wanted a categorical testimonial, not a general one. 

“How will he distinguish himself?” asked Clara. 

“ He is a rising author — little known as yet ; but all that 
must come.” 

Oh dear ! ” siglied Clara plaintively ; I know exactiv 


M/SS RIVERS'S REP^EJVGE. 


77 


the sort of man. I have seen so many of them here. Of 
course he wears spectacles?” 

“ I don’t think he does — or if so, I never noticed them,” 
replied Mr. Ramsay. 

“ You never notice anything you ought to, papa. But 
he is sure to have a horrid beard — unkempt and uncared 
for. They all have.” 

“ He has no beard, I fancy,” answered Mr. Ramsay 
meditatively. 

“ Is he good-looking and nice ?” demanded the audacious 
Clara. 

Mr. Ramsay looked much amused at his daughter’s 
question. 

“/find him nice,” he said. “ But what a chit of a girl 
like you may find him is another matter — a very small 
matter. I should think that most people would call him 
extremely good-looking.” 

“ Is he dark or fair — tall or short ?” 

“ My dear girl, I shall answer no more questions about 
him. Why don’t you imitate the discretion of Miss Rivers, 
who seems free from your failing — curiosity ?” 

I blushed at such undeserved praise ; while Clara, to 
show her opinion of my false pretences, nudged me under 
the table. 

Although Mr. Ramsay would tell us nothing more, we 
in our idle moments, which were many, speculated a great 
deal as to the probable personal appearance of Mr. Vin- 
cent Hope. I had a certain right to feel some anxiety 
about the matter, as I was informed that it would be 
my lot to be taken in to dinner by him ; therefore it was 
a great comfort to me to hear he wore neither spectacles 
nor beard. 

“I know he will be delightful!” cried Clara. “I feel 
sure the whole matter is arranged by fate. Of course lie 
will fall in love with you at once ! Who could help doing 
so ? You will look so nice. Heritage 1 ” 

This is the way in which foolish young women chatter 
at times. 

It would be my first dinner-party — an ordeal always try- 
ing to a young girl. Anyway, I dreaded it. In spite of 
Clara’s well-meant compliments my mind was not easy. 
I mistrusted the appearance I should present. My new 
dress, I fancied, fitted me badly ; and I was haunted by a 
presentiment that my hands and the backs of my arms 
wore dcciiUod lo gruw crimson. So v.tislrcSSiiig were my 


M/SS RIVERSES REVEATGE, 




fears, that as the hour approached, I would much rather 
have joined the boys, who not being admitted to the feast, 
had gone off for a jolly long row on the river — “to get out 
of it all,” they said. 

As I dressed myself, I wondered whether I should quite 
know what to eat, wliat to drink ; and, above all, if any one 
should deign to speak to me, what to talk about. Perhaps, 
I thought, ail this comes instinctively. If, happily, such 
is the case, could it be possible, as Clara boldly predicted, 
that I should carry the little world by storm ? I took one 
last glance at the mirror. After all, I did not look so very 
much amiss. Then, a few minutes before the hour struck, 
I entered the drawing-room, feeling almost sanguine. 

The guests arrived — two by two. “Like animals going 
into the ark,” whispered Clara, who having seen a little 
more society than I had, seemed quite at her ease. Mr. Vin- 
cent Flope, as became a distinguished man, was late. At 
least it was not until a few moments before dinner was 
announced tliat Mr. Ramsay brought a gentleman to me 
and presented liim. 

We bent to each other, then taking his arm I joined 
the procession to the dining-room. Of course I dropped 
my fan, or something, by the way. This necessitated my 
cavalier’s stooping down to recover possession of it, thereby 
delaying all the couples behind us for a moment or two. 
I was beginning badly. 

We sunk into our appointed places, and as the soup was 
being handed around, Mr. Plope addressed a few ordinary 
remarks to me. Then I began to realize how shy — how 
stupid a person I was. The only words my foolish tongue 
seemed capable of forming were “Yes” and “ No.” Con- 
nected words had left me for an indefinite period. I felt 
my conversational shortcomings so acutely, that it was 
some little while before I was able to look at my neighbor, 
except furtively and timidly. 

He was tall, I knew ; that fact had made itself manifest 
as we walked arm-in-arm. I had also received a sort of 
impression that he Was good-looking. At last, when able 
to really look at him, I found that Mr. Ramsay’s account, 
so far as it went, was a true one. 

The young man was undoubtedly handsome. His eyes 
— the features a woman first looks at — were good : gray, I 
decided, with dark lashes. His face was pale, and bore a 
look of refinement. His forehead was high — not too high 
— a-'^d his chin was large, and gave him the appearance of 


MISS VERSUS REFEJVGE, 




possessing considerable force of character. Above all, his 
nose was straight, and his hands well shapen. Twenty- 
eight I should have guessed his age. Altogether, a very 
creditable young man. 

Fate had been kind in selecting this companion for me, 
if only I could find something to talk about — something so 
gifted a creature as he was reported to be would not be 
bored with. Alas for me, the conversation-field seemed to 
have become suddenly barren of flowers of speech — not 
even a bud was left ! Yet among people with whom I 
am at home, I had never yet been accused of taciturnity. 

For some short time the lady on the other side of hin-i 
saved me. She appeared to know him, and complimented 
him on the success of an article in one of the reviews, 
which she attributed to him. He thanked her for her 
praise, spoke a few words on general subjects, then, as 
I suppose in duty bound, turned to me and recommenced 
conversation. 

In five minutes I positively hated myself and Mr. Vincent 
Hope. It maybe kindness to bring one’s intellect down to 
the level of the listener ; I call it conceit. If, in spite of 
my elaborate new dress, he could not help seeing I was 
but a school-girl, was there any reason why he should so 
plainly show me he saw it ? Was there any reason why he 
should quite change the manner of his discourse as he 
changed his listener — should talk to me in a way he evi- 
dently thought suited to my calibre ? If he meant it 
kindly what right had he to think I should esteem it kind- 
ness ? I dare say I deserved nothing more ; but who was 
he to judge of my deserts ? It ruffled rny vanity and de- 
stroyed any self-confidence I was beginning to feel. The 
worst of it was he meant no rudeness." 

He did not even pretend to patronize me ; he simply 
chose to talk upon subjects which he was pleased to think 
were well within my limited range. It was mortifying ! 
I twisted up my dinner-napkin under the table as a sort 
of vent to my vexation. Soon I grew desperate. I would 
show this man I was not the inane, empty-headed school- 
girl he fancied me, or I would perish in the attempt. 

My fluency of speech came back as suddenly as it left 
me. On my own account I began to talk — of topics about 
which I knew nothing, of places I had never visited, of 
people I had never seen, and of books I had never read. 

He seemed amused at my new departure and, I flattered 
myself, tried to lead me on to talk. So talk I did and 


20 


M/SS RICVENGR, 


thought no evil. It was not until I had once or twice gone 
completely out of my depth, right over head and shoul- 
ders, and was compelled to flounder back as best I could, 
that I fancied the wretched man was laughing at me — not 
openly of course ; liis manner was politeness itself. Yet 
I had an unpleasant suspicion that more than once I had 
made myself an idiot in his eyes. 

1 positively detest people who have the misfortune to 
see me at a disadvantage ; so when I rose with the rest of 
the women and left the table I felt that it would have been 
a great satisfaction to have given Mr. Vincent Hope’s 
broad shoulders a Partliian stab with a dessert-fork. I 
had not been a success, and what was worse, I knew it! 

It was dull work in the drawing-room. The women 
were strangers to me and talked about their own and their 
friends’ affairs, in none of which I had the slightest in- 
terest. It was very hot too. I peeped out of the window 
and saw the garden looking most tempting in the liglit of 
a lovely autumnal moon. How delightful it would be if 
I could have one walk round it ! 

1 doubted whether it would be quite right for a young 
lady to walk about the garden alone, and by moonlight, 
but the temptation was very great. After all, I have al- 
ways found it much easier and often pleasanter to yield to 
little temptations of this kind than to resist them, so I 
soon gave in. Even at the risk of a cold or a scolding I 
would have one — just one — turn in the soft September 
night. 

I slipped from the room, covered my head and shoulders 
with a shawl, and stole through the library window, which 
opened to the ground. 

The change from the close atmosphere of Mr. Ramsay’s 
drawing-room was, as I predicted it Would be, simply de- 
licious. The clear sky, the full moon, and the bright stars 
which had tempted me out made me feel quite poetical. 
I forgot all my little annoyance in the beauty of the night ; 
I became quite cheerful and happy. The one turn round 
the garden, which I had pledged myself not to exceed, 
grew to a great many ; yet I was loath to leave the en- 
chanting scene. But duty must not be altogether neglected. 
With a sigh I turned for the last time and l^egan to retrace 
my steps to the house. To my horror, as I neared it, I 
saw the French casements of the dining-room open, saw 
the flood of brilliant light which poured out partially 
eclipsed as one dark body after another passed through 


M/SS I VERSUS REVEJVG'E. 


8r 


the aperture. I realized in a moment the frightful posi- 
tion in which I was placed. The men were coming out to 
get a breath of fresh air and to smoke a cigarette before 
entering the drawing-room. Wliat could I do ? I was cer- 
tain to be seen. Bj the light of the wonderful moon 
everything was as clearly visible as by broad daylight. I 
slirunk from the polite ridicule with which my nocturnal 
wanderings were sure to be greeted ; in truth I was now 
rather ashamed of the freak which had led me into such 
an awkward situation. I wished to extricate myself with- 
out having to make excuses and explanations, and as I 
shuddered at the thought of walking boldly past the knot 
of gentlemen I was compelled to adopt the alternative — 
concealment. 

On the lawn near to me grew one of those conical trees 
— a species of laurel — the foliage of which touches the 
ground, and leaves the centre nearly hollow. This par- 
ticular tree was so large that it formed a natural summer- 
house, and to enable it to fulfil its mission, an entrance 
had been cut through the boughs on the side furthest 
from the house. It was the very thing — a perfect harbor 
of refuge ! 

Careless of insects, heedless of the twigs which caught 
and tugged at my hair, but groaning, nevertheless, as I 
though of my new frock, I rushed inside, unseen and I 
hoped unheard, resolved to wait behind the friendly boughs 
until the voices which I heard in the distance died in 
silence. Feeling quite sure that no one would be likely 
to explore the leafy recesses of my hiding-place, I began 
to grow easy in my mind, and even ventured to compli- 
ment myself upon the cleverness I had displayed. My 
triumph was short-lived. In a few moments 1 became 
aware that voices were drawing near to me — so alarm ingiy 
near that very soon I was able to recognize them and dis- 
tinguisli \vhat they were saying. It was Mr. Vinceiit Hope 
and his host, who had strolled away from their friends. 

“ You have a fine specimen of the Portuguese laurel 
here,” said the former. 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Ramsay. “It’s a fine tree of the 
kind. They seldom grow larger. Indeed, this one is be- 
ginning to die down. There is an entrance cut on the 
other side ; so it makes a shady but uncomfortable warm- 
weather retreat.” 

Then I knew that the two gentlemen were coming 
round to the entrance. I was in despair. I cowered down 


82 


MISS RIVERS'S REVENGE. 


in the darkness and prayed that Mr. Hope’s curiosity 
might not induce him to pursue his botanical researches 
into the interior. I saw his head and shoulders fill up the 
entrance and hide the moonlight falling there. For the 
moment I was undecided whether to shriek with horror, 
to endeavor to scare him away by growling like a wild 
beast, or to lie still and trust to chance. On the whole, 
the last seemed the wisest course to adopt. I breathed 
more freely when I found he had no intention of entering 
— the recesses were not tempting at night. I hoped the 
two men would now remove themselves. But, alas! my 
imprisonment was not yet to be ended. They stood ex- 
actly in front of the entrance, and from my hiding-place I 
could hear every word they spoke. 


CHAPTER H. 

Much as I disliked that young man, I was bound to 
confess that he looked provokingly handsome as he stood 
bare-headed in the moonlight, watching the wreaths of 
smoke from his cigar curling about in the still air. I 
could now scan him quite at my ease. My courage had 
returned, and I felt myself insured against discovery. My 
only dread was that the two men would begin to talk se- 
crets. In such a case, my keen sense of honor must, of 
course, make me reveal my presence. I made a firm reso- 
lution that I would not play at eavesdropping. Alas, for 
poor humanity ! In a minute I was straining my ears to 
catch every word. Yet how could I help it ? Heritage 
Rivers was the subject of their discourse. 

“ I hope you found your companion at dinner a pleasant 
one?” said Mr. Ramsay. 

“Oh, yes; very pleasant,” replied Mr. Hope carelessly. 
“ She’s a nice sort of a girl, I dare say.” 

A nice sort of a girl ! The wretched man ! I hated 
him ? 

“We think a great deal more of her than that,” said that 
dear old Mr. Ramsay. 

“ Indeed,” replied his companion, without evincing the 
slighest interest in the matter. 

“ Yes — indeed, and indeed,” echoed my old friend. 
“ But, joking apart, did you no*- »''^tice she bids fair to be 
a most beautiful woman ?” 


M/SS I VERSUS REVEN-GE, 


It would have needed little more to have brought me 
from my lurking-place on purpose to kiss that good old 
man ! 

Vincent Hope laughed quietly. 

“ To tell you the truth,” he said, “ I don’t think I noticed 
her much. She seemed to me of the ordinary school-girl 
type. I don’t care much for school-girls.” 

I dug my nails into my hands and ground my teeth. 
Handsome as the man looked in the moonlight, I could 
have killed him then and there. 

“ Yet,” said Mr. Ramsay, “ I noticed she talked pretty 
freely to you.” 

The shrug of Mr. Hope’s shoulders almost maddened 
me. 

“Yes; but sad nonsense,” he said, “although it was 
rather amusing at times. Of course, it’s not fair to judge 
her now. She is very raw, and I should say ratlier awk- 
ward. If properly looked after, no doubt she will grow up 
to be a decent sort of a young woman.” 

Raw and awkward ! He spoke of me — me, whom many 
of my school friends called Queen Heritage, from the 
stately and dignified manner I was supposed to assume at 
times. A decent sort of a young woman ! That I should 
hear a man, one, moreover, in his own opinion a judge on 
such matters, gravely set this up as the standard to wliich 
I might arrive — if properly looked after. It was too 
much, the fall was too great. And as the horrible tliought 
flashed across me that his description might be true, his 
prediction correct, tears of sheer mortification sprung into 
my eyes. Even Mr. Ramsay’s almost testy rejoinder gave 
me no comfort. 

“ Oh, nonsense, Hope ! She will grow up a beautiful, 
accomplished, and clever woman. You judge her wrongly. 
Talk to her agajn in the drawing-room ; there she will be 
more at home.” 

“All right I will,” the wretch answered. “But at 
present I want to talk to you about more important things 
than young ladies. I have to-day been offered the editor- 
ship of the Piccadilly Magazine, Shall I take it ? ” 

“ I congratulate you. But it is too serious a matter to 
decide out here. We will talk it over by and by. We 
must join the ladies now. I see every one else has gone 

. pr 

“Then I suppose we must,” said Mr. Hope rathTi rue- 
fully, and tossing his cigar away with a half-sigh. 


MISS RIVERSES REVENGE. 


S4 

I waited a minute ; then T peered out, and at last vent- 
ured to creep round the laurel and reconnoitre. The 
broad back of my candid critic was just disappearing 
through the dining-room window. I shook my fist vicious- 
ly at it. I watched Mr. Ramsay follow his guest, saw the 
window close and the blind fail ; then I flew at top speed 
to the library, whence I had made my exit, entered noise- 
lessly, and threw myself into a chair, feeling that my life 
was blighted. 

The room was faintly lighted up ; the door was closed ; 
I was alone with my misery ; for misery it was ; I use the 
word soberly and advisedly, without a thought of jesting. 
Fortunately or unfortunately I had heard myself appraised 
at my true value. My merits had been weighed by an im- 
partial hand ; I had been judged and condemned. I was a 
failure. “ Raw and awkward." “ A decent sort of a young 
woman " — the words ate into my heart. No expressions 
could have been devised which would have wounded me 
more deeply. 

He would give me another chance in the drawing-room. 
Would he? I think not, Mr. Vincent Hope. No power 
on earth shall take me there to-night. I turn the gas up 
and look at myself in the mirror. My hair is dishevelled, 
my eyes are red, and I cannot help fancying that my nose 
looks rather coarse. Yes, it must be true ; I. am not even 
good-looking. 

Beneficial as it may be for one who is not without vanity 
to learn the truth, I hate with a deadly hatred the man 
who has revealed it to me. Solemnly I declare somehow 
that some day I will have my revenge. I am very young, 
which is an advantage to one who may have to wait a long 
time for a certain object. O yes, I can wait — even for ten, 
fifteen or twenty years, I can wait ; but I will have re- 
venge, full revenge. So I raved on and on, growing more 
tragical every moment, until I broke dowfT^ and began to 
cry again. 

I had barely dried my eyes when Clara entered the 
room. 

“ What, Heritage ? ’’ she cried, “ you here ! I have 
hunted high and low for you, but never thought of looking 
here. Come into the drawing-room ; we must sing our 
duet." 

I pleaded a splitting headache ; I could not bear the hot 
room. 1(1 should go to bed at once ; and in spite of Clara’s 
entreaties Uj bed I went, and had tiie plcn?iirc of dreaming 


MISS KIFERS'S REF/FVGE. 


85 


that I was sticking stilettos and scissors into Mr. Vincent 
Hope. This was so comforting, that I was quite sorry 
when morning came and I found it was but a dream. 

“ Wasn’t he delightful ?” was Clara’s first question when 
we met. 

‘‘ Wasn’t who delightful ?" 

“Mr. Hope of course. The other men were fogies.” 

“ Now, Clara, look here. Once for all, I tell you I found 
that young man detestable — simply detestable. I hate him. 

I never met any one I took such a dislike to.” 

Clara’s blue eyes opened in amazement. 

“ I thought you got on so well together,” she said. “ He 
asked for you in the drawing-room, and seemed quite sorry 
to hear you were ill. We all liked him immensely.” 

He asked after me ! A piece of impertinence — a gratui- 
tous insult — a piece of superfluous hypocrisy, which, were 
it possible, made my wish for revenge stronger. 

“Well, I loathe him,” I said, “and there’s an end of it. 

I won’t even talk about him.” 

I was as good as my word, and Clara, for the want of a 
listener, was obliged to desist from ringing the changes in 
praise of Mr. Hope. 

I left Twickenham two or three days after this. As I 
drove to the station, Mr. Hope — most likely on his way to 
the Ramsays’ house — passed the carriage. Clara was with 
me, so the young man bowed to us collectively. I made 
no sign of recognition. 

“ Heritage,” said Clara, “that was Mr. Hope. Didn’t 
you see him ? ” 

“Was it.?” I replied. “I had quite forgotten what he 
was like.” 

For a beginner, this was a pretty good fib. After telling 
it so calmly, I felt I was getting on. “ Raw and awkward ! ” 
Oh, no ! I did not forget either the words or the speaker. ‘ 
When I declare vendetta, I mean it. 

Five years passed by. I was twenty two. I had seen 
many people and many things. Either for better or worse, 

I had changed in much, but still retained my knack of 
never forgetting a foe or a friend. Incredible as it seems, 
my anger against Mr. Hope was keen as ever — my 
wish for revenge as strong. The injury he had unwittingly 
done me had been greater than, even in my first burst of 
rage, I had imagined. During the interval his words kept 
recurring to my mind, and hindered the growth of proper 
confidence and self-esteem. A long series of pleasant little 


86 


MISS AVF/i/i’5’5 REVEN-GE, 


social triumphs alone^ permitted me to say at last that his 
prophecy had not been fulfilled. But now, after five years, 
the more I thought of the annoyance, even anguish, his 
words had caused me, the more vicious I felt toward him ; 
the more resolved to compass revenge when the opportu- 
nity occurred. Oh, yes ; I was a good hater — not a doubt 
of it. I could carry my stone seven years in my pocket, 
then turn it and carry it seven years more, or twice seven 
years, never for a moment forgetting its ultimate destina- 
tion. 

But when should I have the chance of hurling it, and 
how should I act when the chance came ? Except in the 
r treet, casually, I had never since met the man. Vincent 
Hope visited no friends of mine save the Ramsays. They 
left Twickenham shortly after my visit, and now lived a 
hundred miles from town. I had stayed with them sev- 
eral times, but my foe had never appeared. Of course 
I had heard a great deal about him. He was now quite 
a famous man. To keep myself posted up in the light 
literature of the day I was compelled to read his books, 
and in honesty I am bound to say I admired them, al- 
though I detested the author of them. Surely we must 
meet some day. I went out a great deal, and I heard he 
was much sought after. But our paths as yet had not 
crossed. 

It was winter. I was spending some weeks with new 
friends who had taken a great fancy to me — kind hospi- 
table people, who like to have a constant stream of visitors 
passing, but very slowly, through their house. The 
Lightens were a wealthy county family, noted for their 
open-handed hospitality. I never stayed at a gayer or 
pleasanter place than Blaize House. It was not very large ; 
but from the way in which it seemed to extend itself to 
accommodate the numerous guests, my belief is it must 
have been built on the plan of an accordion. I can only 
account for its capabilities by tliis theory. 

Except from the tiny village which gave or took its 
name, Blaize House was miles away from everywhere ; but 
its resources, so far as amusement went, made it immaterial 
in what part of the world it st(3od. The family consisted 
of Mr. Lighton — called by every one, even his guests, the 
squire; his wife, a fitting companion to him, who shared 
his pursuits and heartily seconded the welcome he gave to 
every one ; and two daughters, about my own age. These 
may h® tpra>‘?d the nucleus, the standing congregation of 


M/SS RIVERSES REVEauE, 


87 


the establishment. In addition there were sons who turned 
up unexpectedly and at intervals, and two or three cousins 
were invariably sojourning there. Add to these, again, the 
lloating population in the shape of visitors who came and 
went, and you will realize that it was a merry house. 

Breakfast was just over ; we had been longer about it 
tlian usual, the weather being too damp and drizzly to 
tempt us out of doors. Letters were being read with the 
last cup of tea. The squire selected one from his pile and 
tossed it over to his wife, remarking that she would be 
glad to hear the good news it contained. Then it went 
from hand to hand until I had the pleasure of reading, 

“ My DEAR Squire: I have just written the delightful 
word Finis at the bottom of a page, which is the last of 
my last immortal (!) production. I will do no more work 
for weeks, but will take tliQ train to-morrow and come to 
Blaize House, in time, I hope, for dinner. I do not apolo- 
gize for this short notice, knowing there is even more 
joy within your gates over the uninvited than the invited 
guest. 

Yours always, 

“Vincent Hope.” 

Vincent Hope ! It must be my enemy. The allusion 
to his literary pursuits put that beyond a doubt. My 
time had come ! I could not have selected a fairer field 
on which to mete out the vengeance I had stored up. As 
I read that letter, I positively blushed with pleasure, so 
vividly that I feared people might jump at entirely wrong 
conclusions. I thought of nothing all day but the way in 
winch my enemy was delivered into my hands. Tlie de- 
light of having at last the chance of paying out the critic 
for his criticism produced a frame of mind which seemed 
to urge me to go into quiet corners and laugh at my own 
thoughts. I had plenty of time to mature my plans and 
draw soothing pictures of the effects of my revenge. I 
resolved to risk no chance meeting with the foe ; and 
feeling that a good beginning would be half the battle, be- 
fore six o’clock I went to my room to arm for the fray. 

Remember, I am confessing, not jesting. I sent for my 
maid, and bade her take down my hair and brush it. If, 
as her deft fingers braided my locks to my satisfaction, I 
had thought the girl would have comprehended me, I 


88 


M/SS RIVE/^S'S RE FENCE, 


might have quoted certain lines of Mrs. Browning’s which 
kept singing through my head, 

Comb it smooth, and crown it fair ; 

I would look in purple pall, from the lattice down the wall, 

And throw scorn on one that’s there.” 

Anyway, she crowned it fair enough, and by my expres3» 
desire, clad me in my most becoming gear. Then a few 
minutes before the bell rang, I sent her away, and stood 
alone before the cheval-glass surveying myself with a 
contented smile. For my plan of revenge had at least the 
merit of simplicity ; it was to win that man’s admiration — 
if possible his love. Upon the day when lie offered me the 
latter, and I coldly and scornfully rejected it, I should feel 
that I had squared all accounts between us in a manner 
highly satisfactory to myself. 

How do women win men’s love ? I did not quite know ; 
but I fancied, if conducted properly, the operation was not 
of a difficult nature. I hoped and believed I should suc- 
ceed. Although my resolution reads badly, and sounds 
even worse, I comforted myself by thinking that as I meant 
to refuse what I laid myself out to win, no one would dare 
to censure me or accuse me of very unbecoming conduct. 
And now what are my weapons with which to conquer ? 

I look at myself in the glass. It may read like vanity, 
but I feel that old Mr. Ramsay’s prediction is. fairly veri- 
fied. Although I blush as I appraise myself, I know I am 
no longer the slim school-girl — but that I am something 
not, perhaps, far off a beautiful woman. I am tall. My 
figure is certainly good. My complexion will bear any 
test ; and sometliing tells me I could, if 1 wished, make 
my eyes dangerous. So much for nature. As for art, I 
have chosen the prettiest of many pretty gowns, and my 
gowns now liave a knack of sitting well upon me ; so I am 
not ashamed to walk gracefully across the room, and 
courtesying to myself in the glass, say approvingly to my 
double, “Yes, Heritage Rivers, you liave grown into a 
very decent sort of a woman — a very decent sort ! ” Hav- 
ing refreshed my memory by the repetition of that pecul- 
iarly galling phrase, I gather up my skirts and sally forth 
to victory. 

Fortune favored me. As the greatest stranger and last 
arrival, it would have been in Vincent Hope’s province to 
take our hostess into the dining-room had we not been 
favored that day by the presence of a county magnate, 


MISS RIVERSES REVENGE. 


whose claim to precedence could not be lightly overlooked. 
It seemed but natural and part of the plot fhat the squire 
should present Mr. Vincent Hope to Miss Rivers, and for 
the second time in their lives these two should be seated 
side by side sipping their soup in unison — but this time, if 
wounded vanity was to be the result of the contiguity, 
Miss Rivers would not be the victim. 

So I began : 

“You have come straight from town, Mr. — Vincent — I 
fancied the squire said ? We all call him squire, you know.” 

“ Oh, yes. He is an old friend of mine. But he called 
me Vincent Hope, I suspect.” 

This gave me what I wanted, an excuse for looking him 
full in the face — an act which, beside being a fitting trib- 
ute to his fame, enabled me to observe how time had treated 
him. So I lifted my lashes and looked straight at him. 
If time had not been quite idle with him, it had treated 
him kindly. He was handsome as ever. The hair near 
his temples being just decked with gray did not detract 
from his good looks. I thought his features looked more 
marked, and the whole expression of his face more con- 
fident and powerful even than of old. He had won success, 
and no doubt fully realized and enjoyed the fact. 

“ Vincent Hope ! ” I echoed. “ Not the Vincent Hope ? ” 

I guessed instinctively that flattery was not a bad gun 
with which to open fire. By this time his name was so 
well known that it would have been affectation to appear 
to misunderstand me. He bowed and smiled. 

“ How delightful ! ” I exclaimed ; my look, I am ashamed 
to say, confirming my words. “ Now tell me how I should 
talk to you. Ought I to give you my opinion about all the 
characters in your books ; or ought I to sit silent and 
awed, treasuring up every word of wit and wisdom voii may 
let fall ? ” 

“Neither, I must beg. I have just thrown off tlie har- 
ness, and come down to enjoy the squire’s clover. I am 
trying to forget there is such a thing as work in the 
world.” 

“Very well. I sliall take you at your word, after, as in 
duty bound, saying I have read all you have written, so far 
as I know.” 

His wish to avoid the topic of his own achievements 
may have been a genuine one, but nevertheless he seemed 
pleased with my remark, and looking at me with a smile, 
said. 


90 


MISS RIVERS'S REVEUGE, 


** Exchange is but fair. I scarcely heard what the squire 
called you.” 

“ Rivers — Heritage Rivers.” 

“ Heritage Rivers,” he echoed musingly. “ It is an un- 
common name ; but I fancy I have heard it before.” 

“ Oh, please don’t say so, Mr. Hope. I did think I had 
one original thing to boast of — my name. How would 
you like, after looking upon all your plots as original, to 
find them but plagiarisms ? ” 

He laughed. 

“ Many are, I fear. But you are trespassing on forbidden 
ground. Let us seek fresh pastures.” 

We did so. We talked all dinner-time. I think we 
talked about everything under the sun — talked, moreover, 
almost like old friends. When he differed from my opin- 
ions he told me in well-chosen words why he differed. 
And as he spoke, I whispered ever and anon to myself. 

Raw and awkward — a decent sort of a woman.” Yet now 
Mr. Hope was condescending enough not only to listen 
attentively to my words, but to reply to them as if they 
had weight with him. All this was very delightful. The 
first steps to revenge were smooth and pleasant ones ; for 
there is no need to say that I hated him as much and felt 
as vindictive as ever. 

He was walking straight to his fate. I felt it when, 
just before Mrs. Lighten gave the signal for departure, he 
dropped his voice almost to a whisper, and was good enough 
to say that, to him, the peculiar charm of this particular 
dinner was that such an agreeable interchange of ideas 
would not be ended with the night, but might be resumed 
to-morrow. Coming as it did from such a famous person 
I could only glance my thanks, blush, and look pleased at 
the compliment. 

When with the rest of my sex I rose and walked to the 
door, I knew that his eyes were following me ; and 1 knew 
also that, although clever, captious, critical those eyes 
might be, they could find little fault with my bearing or 
general demeanor. 

At Blaize House it was understood that the gentlemen, 
especially the younger ones, were not allowed to linger 
long over the wine. When they entered the drawing-room 
I was sitting, almost hidden from sight, in a recess near 
the window. I noticed that Mr. Hope, as he came through 
the door, looked round as if in search of some one ; and 
as, when at last he discovered my retreat, his search 


MISS RIVERSES REVEATGE. 


9 ^ 

seemed at an end, I could only think the some one was 
myself. However, we had little more to say to each other 
this evening. All the children of the house were his 
triends, and had many questions to ask him. We had 
music and singing as usual ; but I made some conventional 
excuse, and did not take my share in them. Before we 
parted for the night Vincent Hope came to my side. 

“Surely you sing, Miss Rivers?” he said. 

“A little. But I’m not in the mood to sing to-night.” 

He pressed me to make the attempt, but I refused. 
Thinking I had done quite enough for the first evening, I 
kept my voice in reserve. But I talked to him for a short 
time about music, and found him well versed in the art, 
and of course an unsparing critic. He was very hard on 
the ordinary drawing-room playing and singing, and by no 
means complimentary to the performers of the evening. 
I laughed, and told him how thankful I felt that something 
had warned me not to show my poor skill to such an abk 
but severe judge. My words led him to believe that m) 
talent for music was a very third-rate one. This was ex 
actly what I wished him to think. 

He was soon drawn away from my side, and we spok( 
no more until the general good-night took place, and the 
men went off to the billiard-room and my own sex to their 
couches. Once more I courtesied to Miss Rivers in the 
cheval-glass, and told her she had surpassed my most san- 
guine expectations. Then, in a very happy frame of mind, 
I went to bed. 


CHAPTER III. 

Very promising loo were the events of the next day. 
I felt that the man I hated was paying me attention above 
my fellows. Of course it was not marked enough to at- 
tract notice, but attention it was undoubtedly. He walked 
with me, and told me among other things a great deal 
about his early life and struggles for success. He was 
quite interesting, so much so, that I wished I could check 
these confidences. I feared that his talk might awaken a 
suspicion of sympathy in my mind, which would grievously 
interfere with my vendetta. 

That evening he repeated his request that I would sing ; 
but after the way in which I had misled him, I knew he 


92 


Af/SS AWICRS'S RETE.VGE. 


only urged me for tiie sake of politeness. I began with 
one of those little ballads which he so much disliked : an 
easy, simple little thing, which could only be borne out of 
the commonplace by feeling on the part of the singer. 
I glanced at him as I finished the song. He thanked me 
quietly, but I saw he looked puzzled. Then I placed 
Beethoven’s “Adelaide ” before me, and sung it as I had 
seldom or never before sung it — entirely to my own satis- 
faction. I rose from the piano, and our eyes met. He 
did not join in the chorus of thanks, but I knew he was 
more than moved ; and as he followed me to my chair I 
exulted, as I thouglit that the pet weapon in my armory 
had struck well home. 

“Miss Rivers,” he said, “ I thought no amateur in Eng- 
land could sing that song to her own accompaniment as 
you sing it. I can only congratulate you while blaming 
you for deceiving me so last night.” 

I thanked liim for his compliment ; and for the rest of 
the evening Mr. Hope talked little except to me. 

There ! — I will write no more about it. Now, I am 
utterly ashamed of it all. Had it not been for my resolve 
to reject it when offered, I would have stooped to win no 
man’s love — not even Vincent Hope’s. But in five days I 
knew that my work was done, and fully done — so fully 
that I dreaded the result of it, and began to wish I had 
not been so vindictive. Wors'e than all, friends — as friends 
will — were exchanging knowing glances, and commenting 
on the relations which appeared to exist between my foe 
and myself. 

Could I have conquered my nature and decided to 
forego my revenge, it was now impossible to do so. For 
my own sake, matters must come to a climax, that all might 
see how little I cared for the man. 

One night as I sat in my dressing-gown over the fire, try- 
ing to make up my mind to tear myself from the pleasant 
glow and get into bed, Mabel Lighton entered my room. 
She was a good, true girl, who spoke her mind freely, and 
at times lectured even me. 

“Heritage,” she said abruptly, “what do you mean to 
do with Vincent Hope ?” 

I could not for the life of me help changing color, and 
was compelled to shield the cheek nearest Mabel with the 
fan which had been protecting my eyes from the fire-light 

“ Do with him ! I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Yes, you do,” retorted my mentor. “ Had it been any 


MISS RIVERSES REVENGE. 


93 


one but you, Heritage, I should have called her a flirt. 
But you are not a flirt, we know.” 

“What have I done, Mabel ? ” I asked. The screen was 
still between us. 

Mabel quietly pushed it aside ; then, placing her hands 
on my shoulders, scrutinized my face in a most uncom- 
fortable manner. 

“ You have done this, and who can wonder at it ? You 
have gained that man’s love entirely. But, although it 
seems so unlike you, I believe you have brought him to 
your feet for vanity’s sake. Heritage, he is a good man 
— a proud man. If you mean to give him nothing in re- 
turn, I should say his life will be wrecked. Do you love 
him, or are my fears well-founded ? ” 

In some fashion I was bound to reply. I sought refuge 
in levity. 

“When I am moved to confess my sins, Mabel, it will 
not be to you, but to some nice, ascetic High-Church 
curate.” 

“ Don’t talk nonsense. I am in bitter earnest. Vincent 
Hope will surely ask you to be his wife. You are rich, 
ttnd he is comparatively poor ; but I know that will not 
influence you. Only I say again, if you refuse, you are 
to blame for all that happens.” 

This must be stopped at any cost. Until now, I had 
always believed that hysterics and affectation were synony- 
mous. 

“Mabel,” I said, “I hate Vincent Hope; but at this 
moment I think I hate you even more ! Go to bed. I am 
too tired to say another word ; so go away.” 

Therewith, I got into bed, turned my face to the wall, 
and left Mabel to put out my candle and get back to her 
own quarters when she thought fit. 

I was annoyed and ashamed. She had nearly accused 
me of what I had in truth been guilty of — making love to 
my enemy. As people noticed my conduct, it became 
more and more necessary that I should clear myself 
from all such imputations. This could be done in oneway 
only. 

Perhaps I had the grace to avoid Vincent Hope some- 
what during the next two days. Perhaps that very avoid- 
ance hastened the catastrophe. But on the third day, 
chance — pure chance, mind — left us together and alone. 
For a moment there was silence between us ; then he drew 
near me, and said in a quiet, earnest voice, 


94 


MISS RIVERS'S REVERTGE, 


“ Heritage, I love you. Will you be my wife ? ’* 

I could not answer. All I could do was to prevent my- 
self breaking into hysterical laughter. 

He tried to take my hand. 

Heritage, my darling ! I think I loved you the mo- 
ment I saAV you. Look up and answer me. Say you love 
me, and will* be my wife ! ” 

His wife ! After hating him for so long — after Mabel’s 
reproaches — after winning his love in a way the thought 
of which made me blush ! Never, never, never! 

So I steeled myself — drew myself up to every inch of my 
height — looked him full in the face — triumphed, and took 
my revenge. I hope and think I spoke composedly, if not 
coldly. 

“Mr. Hope, you honor me greatly, but it cannot be. 
Please never mention it again.” 

His face was very pale; and when an expression: of posi- 
tive pain left it, grew stern, almost hard. My manner must 
have convinced him I was in earnest. No doubt, had I wished 
to do so, I could have made him fall at my feet and plead 
passionately. But then, unless one is an utter savage, vin- 
dictiveness must be limited. I had done enough. 

Perhaps, under such trying circumstances, no man could 
have behaved in a more dignified manner than did Mr. 
Hope. 

“ I am to understand,” he said calmly, but with a look in 
his eyes which I dared not meet — “ I am to understand you 
■ — you do not love me ?” 

I bowed. 

“ Please let me hear you say so,” he said. 

“ I do not. Let us say no more about it. I think I will 
go back to the house now.” 

We walked in silence until we were close to the gates. 
Then he said, 

“Unless my presumption to-day makes my presence un- 
bearable to you, I shall stay two days longer, as I promised 
Mr. Lighten. It is not w'orth while to set people inquir- 
ing as to the reason for a hasty departure.” 

“Certainly not,” I answered. “Stay as long as you 
wish; or, if you prefer it, I will leave.” 

“That is out of the question,” he replied, as we crossed 
the threshold and parted. 

I went to my room — to exult, of course, in my revenge. 
It was so full, so complete, so exactly as I planned it. 
And writers and poets say that revenge is sweet. Oh, yes, 


MISS RIVERS'S REVENGE, 


95 


it was very, very sweet — so sweet, that I double-locked the 
door, that no one might see how I enjoyed it — so sweet 
that I threw myself on my bed, and thought my heart 
must break as I sobbed and wept, for the truth must be 
told — I loved Vincent Hope, even as he said, and as I 
hoped lie loved me. Yet for the sake of vanity I had to- 
day rejected the love of a man, the best, the noblest, the 
cleverest in the world ! I had hurled my hoarded stone, 
and right well it had fulfilled its mission ; but its rebound 
had crushed me. Oh, yes, revenge is very sweet ! 

. I rose, and walking up to the Heritage Rivers in the 
cheval-glass, shook my fist at her violently. “ You fool ! ” 
I said to her. “ A nice mess you have made of life ! Re- 
venge, indeed ! Call it by its right name — folly ! Go 
and clothe yourself in sackcloth — cover your head with 
ashes, and cry your eyes out for to-day’s work.” Then 
Mabel’s words about a wrecked life came to my mind ; and 
although I could not believe that the happiness of such a 
man as Vincent Hope could be dependent upon an idiot 
like myself, I thouglit of that strange look I had seen in 
his eyes — that look which no resolution of mine could 
make me meet. So I went back to bed once more, and 
cried and abused myself. Ay, reven'ge, forsooth, revenge 
is sweet ! 

In spite of all, I determined to go down to dinner. I 
would do^hat much for his sake. It should not be sus- 
pected that anything had gone wrong between us ; and I 
knew that if I stayed away Mabel, for one, would certainly 
guess what had occurred. This, if I could prevent it, 
should be known to no one. I smiled grimly as I thought 
how my revenge must fail in this : that the world would 
never know what I had scorned and refused. I made a 
great effort, dabbed my eyes with rose-water, and went 
down-stairs in passable trim. 

To-night we were not side by side, but sat directly oppo- 
site to one another. Mabel was right — Vincent Hope was 
a proud man. His discomfiture was no concern of the 
world’s, so he showed no traces of it. All save one at that 
table would have said that his heart was gay and light. 
No one would liave dreamed that a few hours before his 
love had been refused by an idiot of a girl. He laughed 
and jested ; anecdote and witty repartee fell unceasingly 
from his lips. He held the whole talk, or every unit of the 
party talked to him. Yet, woman-like, I noticed that he 
drank more wine than was his usual custom, and at times 


96 


MISS RIVERSES REVENGE. 


there was a sharper, liarder ring in his voice. ^Had it not 
been for this, and the remembrance of the look which 
still haunted me, I could have believed he had forgot- 
ten or brushed away from his mind the events of the 
day. Vincent Hope was a proud man, and Heritage 
Rivers a fool ! 

I would rather say nothing about the next two days. I 
hated myself so much that I wonder I have ever forgiven my- 
self — perhaps I never have. All I care to say is that none 
even suspected what had happened ; even Mabel began to 
think that the accusation of flirting should lie at Vincent 
Hope’s door, not at mine ; for although he talked to me 
when needful, it was easy to see that his manner was 
changed. 

The'morning of the third day came, and I knew that in 
a few hours we should shake hands, part, and there would 
be the end of everything. 

Blaize is fifteen miles from a railway-station, and that 
station is so unimportant that very few trains stop at it. 
Vincent Hope, to reach town that evening, was obliged to 
start betimes. Soon after luncheon, Charlie Lighten and 
the dog-cart were waiting to take him to the train ; and 
after many expressions of regret from host and hostess he 
took his seat and was ready to start. Of course our hands 
met as, in common with every one else, he bade me adieu 
— a quiet, polite adieu, nothing more — not ev?n coupled 
with the conventional wish that we might meet again. Why 
should he wish to meet me again ? Our encounters as yet 
had not been happy in their results to either ! That accom- 
plished whip, Charlie, gathered up the reins, and with a 
last, all-embracing good-by, Vincent Hope was sped 
away along the winding carriage-drive, and for the first 
time in her foolish life Heritage Rivers knew that such 
things as broken hearts may be found outside romances. 

Something was afoot that afternoon — walking-party or 
skating-party — for it was the middle of January, and 
bitterly cold. Now that the necessity of keeping up ap- 
pearances for anotlier’s sake was at an end. Miss Rivers 
felt very much like breaking down and disgracing her- 
self. She longed for solitude, and made some excuse to 
stay at home. As every one was bound on the expedition, 
she had the house practically to herself. After bemoan- 
ing her wickedness and folly for some time in the sanctity 
of her own chamber, a strange craving came over her. 
She felt she must go down and sit in the little room which 


M/SS RIVERSES REVEiVGE, 


97 


adjoins the library ; and although censuring her own weak- 
ness, she yielded to the impulse. 

Vincent Hope, in spite of his resolve to spend his time 
at Blaize House in well-earned idleness, had been unable 
to do so exactly. Ominous rolls of printed matter came 
by post — a sin of long standing, he said, which publishers 
insisted on dragging into daylight at once. So he did 
one or two hours’ work each day, and grumbled at it in a 
very amusing manner. By tacit consent the little room 
had been kept sacred to him ; there, when he chose, he 
worked without fear of interruption. It was no doubt 
on account of this that Miss Rivers felt that uncontrol- 
lable desire to sit for awhile in this particular room. The 
stupidity of her desire need not be commented upon, as 
her generally idiotic nature must liave made itself mani- 
fest many pages back. She entered the room and closed 
the door softly. She sat down at the leather-covered 
table, and leaning her head on her hands, looked any- 
thing but a prosperous, healthy, comfortable young 
woman. 

Presently she glanced stealthily around her, and from 
the bosom of her dress drew out a pliotograph of a very 
handsome, distinguished-looking man. Mr. Hope had 
given it to her, at her request, some days before. It was 
to go into her celebrity-album, she told him. Laying it. 
on the table between her elbows. Miss Rivers gazed at it 
long and earnestly, until her foolish eyes became so misty 
with tears that she could see it no longer. One by one 
those tears began to fall, and soon came so fast that she 
gave in altogether — forgot where she was — forgot all risk 
of interruption, and laying her head on the table, presented 
the very picture of woe. 

Her bewailings and beweepings were at their greatest 
height when the door was suddenly thrown open and 
Mr. Hope stood before her! She sprang to her feet, 
and in her agitation brushed the photograph to the 
ground. Even in her dire confusion, the prayer that it 
might have fallen face downwai'd framed itself. But she 
dared not look to see ; she had to face the intruder as 
best she could. Yet he seemed for the moment taken 
even more aback than Miss Rivers. Pie stammered out 
something about a shaft broken three miles from home — 
impossibility of catching train — come back to write tele- 
grams, etc. Then he looked on the ground, and what he 
saw there was enough to make him glance wonderingly 

7 


98 


MISS RIVERS'S REVENGE. 


at the shamefaced girl who stood before him with wet 
lashes and glowing cheeks. 

“Miss Rivers — Heritage!” he said, “tell me what this 
means.” 

She made no reply, but endeavored to pass him. He 
blocked the way, and by the exercise of some force, took 
both her hands in his. As they stood there, she could see 
on the ground between them that unlucky photograph 
lying face upward. 

“ Let me go, Mr. Hope,” she said. “ It’s unkind to keep 
me against my will.” 

Her appeal was vain. His strong hands held her yet 
more firmly. He seemed to be waiting until she chose 
to look up and meet his eyes. But that would never have 
been — not if they had stood there till the present moment. 

At last he spoke ; his voice was almost grave. 

“ Heritage, I am very proud. I have always vowed I 
would ask no woman twice to be my wife ; but I will ask 
you once more if you love me.” 

Miss Rivers only bent her head lower and lower. 

“Answer me. Heritage!” he said, in a changed, pas- 
sionate voice. “ My darling, answer me, and this time 
truthfully ! ” 

It was no use. Had she wished to do so, she could 
fight no longer. She ventured to raise her eyes a little, 
and said, so timidly, so differently from her usual way of 
speaking, 

“ If I thought you would only forgive me, I would try 
and show you what I cannot, will not tell you — how mugh 
I love you ! ” 

She was very, very humble in her new-found happi- 
ness. 

Then Vincent Hope loosened her hands a littlfe, and — 
well, these things happen only once in the life of a true 
woman, and she should neither write nor speak about 
them. But when Charlie Lighten came to look for the 
telegram, not even written, nor, in the proposed form, to 
be written, Vincent Hope and Heritage Rivers were won- 
dering, as every orthodox pair of lovers should wonder, 
why they were chosen out to be made the two very hap- 
piest people in the whole world. 

So this was how I worked out my revenge. 

It was only after we were married that I ventured to 
tell my husband that I had actually laid myself out to win 
his love — and why, when won, I had rejected it. My con- 


M/SS RIVERSES REVENGE. 


99 


fession, which was really seriously made, being complete, 
he looked at me with mock severity. 

“ Heritage,” he said, “ had I known this before, I might, 
even at the eleventh hour, have thought better of the step 
I was taking in putting my future in the hands of such a 
vindictive young woman.” • 

“ And perhaps, sweet sir,” I answered, “ for the very 
fear of that, i have deferred my explanation until now.” 


THE END. 



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221 Fairy Tales, Illustrated 20 

BY LIEUT. J. W. GUNNISON 

440 History of the Mormons 16 

BY MARION HARLAND 


207 Hoaselsecpuig and Uomemaking, ... 15 


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97 India and Ceylon 21 

BY F. W. HACKLANDEE 

COO Forbidden Fruit 29 

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371 The Story of Chinese Gordon 29 

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15 L’Abb6 Constantin 3# 

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43 Two on a Tower 30 

157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk 

maid 10 

749 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

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COMPTON 

414 Over the Suriimer Sea 23 

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269 One False, both Fair 20 

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7 Clytie 20 

137 Cruel London 20 

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370 Twice Told Tales 20 

376 Grandfather’s Chair 20 

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466 Under the Will 10 

566 The Arundel Motto 20 

590 Old Myddleton’s Money 20 

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 

683 Poems 30 

BY DAVID J. HILL, LL.D. 

533 Principles and Fallacies of Social- 
ism li 

BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 

356 Hygiene of the Brain 25 

BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 

709 Woman against Woman 20 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance 20 

BY PAXTON HOOD 

73 Life of Cromwell 15 

BY THOMAS HOOD 

^11 Poems 30 

BY HORRY AND WEEMS 

36 Life of Marion 20 

BY ROBERT HOUDIN 

14 The Tricks of the Greeks 20 

BY EDWARD HOWLAND 

742 Social Solutions, Part I 10 

747 “ “ Part II 10 

758 “ “ Partin 10 

762 “ “ Part IV 10 

765 “ “ Party - 10 


LOVELL^S LIBRAET. 


BY MARIE HOWLAND 

B34 Papa’s Own Girl SO 

BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D. 

t35 Studies in Civil Service 15 

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Cl Tom Brown’s School Days 20 

186 Tom Brown at Oxford, 2 Farts, each. 15 


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869 Life of Hurao 10 


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109 The opoopendyke Papers 20 


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864 Life of Scott 20 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

147 The Sketch Book 20 

198 Tales of a Traveller 20 

199 Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part I 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part II 20 

224 Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey .. .10 
286 Knickerbocker History of New York, 20 

249 The Crayon Papers 20 

263 The Alhambra 15 

272 Conquest of Granada 20 

279 Conquest of Spain 10 

281 Bracebridge Hall 20 

290 Salmagundi 20 

299 Astoria 20 

801 Spanish Voyages 20 

805 A Tour on the Prairies 10 

808 Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each 15 

310 Oliver Goldsmith 20 

811 Captain Bonneville 20 

814 Mooiish Chronicles 10 

821 Wolfert’s Boost and Miscellanies .... 10 


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17 The Dark Colleen 20 


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44 Basselas 10 

BY MAURICE JOXAI 

T54 A Modern Midas 20 


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531 Poems 26 

BY EDWARD KELLOGG 

111 Labor and Capital 20 


BY GRACE KENNEDY 

V196 Dunallan, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

W Horse-Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, each. .15 


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89 The Hermits 20 

64 Hypatia, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

726 Austin Eliot 20 

128 The HiUyars and Burtona 20 


I 731 
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322 

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£35 

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338 


454 


445 


25 

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725 

741 


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327 


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482 


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719 

96 


131 


275 


11 

12 

31 

32 
45 

55 

59 

81 

84 

117 

121 

128 

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204 

222 

240 

245 


247 

250 


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Geoffrey Hamiyn 30 

BY W. H. G. KINGSTON 

Peter the Whaler 20 

Mark Seaworth 20 

Round the World ^ 

The Young Foresters 26 

Salt Water 20 

The Midshipman 20 

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The Golden Dog ^ 

BY A. LA POINTE 

The Rival Doctors .20 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

Divorce 20 

A Brighton Night 20 

Dr. Wilmer’s Love 25 

Lorimerand Wife 20 

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The Chase 20 

BY CHARLES LEVER 

Harry Lorrequer 20 

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Hyperion 20 

Outre-Mer 20 

Poems 20 

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Rory O’ More 20 

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Gideon Fleyce 20 

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Jets and Flashes 2Q 

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lone Stewart 20 

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The Coming Race 10 

Leila .10 

Ernest Maltravers 20 

The Haim ted House .10 

Alice ; A Sequel to Ernest Maltra- 
vers 20 

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Last Days of Pompeii 20 

Zanoni 20 

Night and Morning, 2 Parts, each. . 15 

Paul Clifford 20 

Lady of Lyons 10 

Money 10 

Richelieu 10 

Rienzi, 2 Parts, each 15 

Pelham ^0 

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The Disowned 20 

Kenelm Chillingly 20 

What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts. 

each 20 

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746 Beaton’s Bargain, Mrs, Alexander.. 20 

747 Social Solutions, No. 2, by Howland. 10 

748 Our Roman Palace, by Benjamin. ..20 

749 Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy. .20 

750 Somebody a Story, by Conway.] 0 

751 KingArtliur, by Miss Mulock 20 

752 Set in Diamonds, by B. M. Clay,... 20 

758 Social Solutions, No. 8, by Howdand.lO 

754 A Modem Midas, by Maurice Jokai.20 

755 A Fallen Idol, by F. AnsLey 20 

756 Conspiracy, by Adam Badeau... ,25 

757 Doris’ Fortune, by F, Warden.... 10 

753 Cynic Fortune, by D. C. Murray... 10 

759 Foul Play, by Chas. Reade 20 

760 Fair Women, by Mrs. Forrester 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part I., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part IL, by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

762 Soci il Solutions, No. 4, by Howland. 10 

763 Moths by Ouida 20 

764 A Fair Mystery, by Bertha M. Clay. 20 

765 Social Solutions, No. 6, byHowland.lO 

766 Vixen, by Miss Braddoii 20 

767 Kidnapped, by R. L. Stevenson — 20 

768 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde, by R. L, Stevenson. .10 

769 Prince Otto, by R. L. Stevenson. , .10 

770 The Dynamiter, by R. L. Stevensou.20 

771 The Old Mam’selle’s Secret, by E. 

Marlitt . . 20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part I., by Suc.20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part II., by Sue.20 

773 Put Yourself in His Place, by Reade. 20 

774 Social Solutions, No. 6, byHowland.lO 

775 The Three Guardsmen, byDumas.20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part I., by Sue.20 

776 The W aiidering Jew, Part IL, by Sue.20 

777 A Second Life, bylMfs. Alexander.20- 

778 Social Solutions, No. 7, by Howland.lO 

779 My Friend Jim, by W. E. Norris . . 10 
.730 ^ad to Beat, by Hawley Smart. . . .10 

Betty's Visions, by Broughton 15 

S^eial Solutions, No. 8, by Howland.lO 

783 The Oct>roon, by Miss Braddon.. ..20 

784 Les Miserables, Part I., by Hugo.. 20 
784 Le^ Miserables, Part II., by Hugo . 20 

784 Les Miserables, Part Hi., by Hugo. 20 

785 Social Solutions, No. 9, byHowland.lO 

786 Twenty Years After, by Dumas .... 20 

787 A Wicked Girl, by Mary Cecil Hay. 10 
7o8 Social Solution ':,No. 10. byHowland.lO 
789 Charles O^Malley, P’t I., by Lever 20 

789 Ciiarles O’Malley, P*t II., b}^ Lever. 20 

790 Othmar, by Ouida 20 

7 U Social Solutions, No.ll. by Howland.lO 

792 Her Week’s Ainu.sement, by “The 

Duchess” 10 

793 New Arabian Nights, by Stevenson. 20 

79 1 Tom Burke of Ours, P’t I , by rjever.20 
791 Tom Burke of Ours, P til., by Lever. 20 

795 Social SoIut’ons.No 12, byHowland.lO 

796 Property in Land, by Henry George.l5 

797 A Phantom Lover, by Vernon Lee. 10 


LIBRARY. 

ISSUES. 

798 The Prince of the Hundred Soups, 

by Vernon Lee 10 

799 Maid, Wile, or Widow? by Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

800 Thorns and Orange Blossoms, by 

B. M. Clay 10 

801 Romance of a Black Veil, by Clay. 10 

802 Lady Valworth's Diamonds 10 

803 Love’s Warfare, by B. M. Clay ... .10 

804 Madoiin’s Lover, by B. M. Clay....2() 

805 A House Party, by Ouida 10 

806 From Out the Gloom, by Clay 20 

807 Which Loved Him^Best? by Clay.. 10 

808 A True Magdalen, 'by B. M. Clny. .20 

809 The Sin of a Lifetime, by Clay 20 

810 Prince Charlie’s Daughter, byCla3'.10 

811 A Golden Heart, by B. M. Clay... .10 

812 Wife in Name Only, by B. M. Clay. 20 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

814 Mohawks, by Miss M. E. Braddon. 20 

815 A Woman’s Error, by B. M. Clay. .20 

816 The Broken Seal, by Dora Russell. 20 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince, by 

Commander Lovett-Cameron .... 20 

818 Once Again, by Mrs. Forrester... .20 

S19 Treasure Island, by Stevenson 20 

820 Shane Fadh’s Wedding, by Carleton.lO 

821 Larry McFarland’s Wake, by Wil- 

liam Carleton 10 

822 The Party Fight and Funeral, by 

William Carleton 10 

823 The Midnight Mass, by Carleton. ..10 

824 Phil Purcel, by William Carleton. 10 

825 An Irish Oath, by Carleton 10 

826 Going to Ma^mooth, by Carleton. ..10 

827 Phelim O’Toole’s Courtship, by 

William Carleton 10 

828 Dominick the Poor Scholar, by 

William Carleton 10 

829 Neal Malone, by William Carleton. .10 

830 Twilight Club Tracts, by Wingate. 20 

831 The Son of His Father, by Oliphnnt.20 

832 Sir Percival, by J. H. Shorthouse..l0 

833 A Voyage to the Cape, by Russell. .20 

834 Jack’s Courtship, by Russell 20 

835 A Sailor's Sweetheart, by Russell.. 20 

836 On the Fo’k’sle Head, by Russell, ..20 

837 Marked “In Haste,” by Roosevelt. .20 

838 The George-Hewitt Campaign 20 

839 The Guilty River, by Collins 10 

810 By Woman’s Wit, by Alexander. . ..20 

8 11 Dr. Cupid, by Rhcda Broughton. ..20 

842 The World Went Very Well Then, 

by Walter Besant 20 

843 My Lord and My Lady, by Mrs. 

Forrester. 20 

844 Dolores, by Mrs. Forrester 20 

845 I Have Lived and Loved, by Mrs. 

Forrester 20 

846 An Algonquin Malden, by Adams, ,20 

847 Tlie Ho’y Rose, by Walter Besant. 10 

848 Phe, by H. Rider Haggard 20 

849 Handy Andy, by Samuel Lover, ...20 

850 My Hero, by Mrs. FoiTester 20 


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